Someone To Fight For
by Bamfbugboy
Summary: "Was there someone you were fighting for-a wife, children?" Gaerwen asks with a hopeful smile. Instead, he shakes his head. "No. I fought for Balmorra." "And will you stand with me, now, Zenith?" "I will always fight for you." [Follows the Jedi Consular storyline after Balmorra.]
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note**: _Copying this over from my tumblr. This follows the Jedi Consular storyline post Balmorra and onward, so there will be spoilers. This story follows my Consular, Gaerwen "Wendy" Aurell. The chapters will sometimes make mention of scenes from Tharan Cedrax's and Zenith's companion quests, and potentially Nadia's. This story will consistently remain at the T rating._

**Disclaimer**: I do not own anything related to Star Wars: The Old Republic. Bioware owns that, though if I owned it, THERE WOULD HAVE BEEN A ZENITH ROMANCE OPTION._  
_

* * *

**Someone To Fight For**

Chapter One

Gaerwen had thought that Tatooine had been a nightmare of a planet—hot, dreadfully hot, sand demons, untimely sandstorms, sand people—on Tatooine, sand could be applied to everything. She certainly had not expected Balmorra to one up a planet like Tatooine. She could tolerate the sand, but she had been absolutely terrified of one of Balmorra's many native species—Collicoids. Killiks and Geonosians had been tolerable. Collicoids were where she drew the line.

She leans over the small bath tub and turns on the faucet in order to fill it up with hot water in her personal 'fresher. She lets out a puff of hair that pushes away a few loose auburn strands, and she narrows her brows in annoyance at the memory. Tharan had found the apprehension and anxiety against bugs laughable at first, but had redacted his teasing when he heard Gaerwen's blood-curdling scream when they first encountered a swarm of the large green bugs. To his luck, the flailing Jedi still managed to fling rocks and other debris toward the beasts even with her eyes closed.

As Gaerwen begins to undress herself, she folds each piece of dirty, soiled clothing and places them on the small counter next to several lit incense sticks. She recoils at the potent combination of smells coming from her robes—blaster-fire, bug guts, sweat, and some blood. She sighs. After having killed the first swarm of bugs, Tharan had made a comment along the lines of "Well, that wasn't so bad, was it, Wendy?" with an extra laugh. Of course, he had spoken far too soon. A moment later, the bug corpses exploded into sopping piles of green goo—bug guts included—thus, covering their clothes in the horrendous mess.

The thought makes her grimace and a little angry, as she had not appreciated Tharan's not-so-innocent teasing, and so before she dwells upon it any further she gets into the bath tub and tells herself to relax. There's time to spare for relaxation and recharging oneself after several long days of battle on Balmorra.

She washes herself with her favorite soap that is lavender scented, one of the few self-indulgent expressions of vanity she partakes in as a mostly humble, selfless Jedi. Taking a bath is her favorite part about returning to her ship after a long mission. It is time solely for herself—no inquiring comrades, no hovering diplomats demanding her attention to their planet's most vital matters, no galaxy half-in-ruins, no Jedi Code bearing down upon her shoulders, and worst of all, no worrying about a potential traitorous Imperial presence on her ship.

Gaerwen closes her eyes and slides down into the water to wet her hair and begins to scrub it thoroughly with a similarly scented shampoo and conditioner, since it took the brunt of the same dirt and grime as her clothes. Once finished, she steps out of the now dirty water and drains the tub in order to refill it with fresh water. As it fills up again, she dries her hair and ties it up into a loose bun. She sinks back into the tub once it's filled again and lets out another long sigh.

Her thoughts wander as she soaks in the clean water. Gaerwen avoids thinking about Tharan—she's too disappointed in his cowardly behavior in the face of Balmorra's warzone and rude teasing to think pleasantly of him. Tai Cordan and the fate of the last Balmorran president cross her mind, and she frowns. Balmorra was the first war zone she has encountered, and she learned quickly the costs and sacrifices of war. Given the state of the galaxy's politics and diplomatic difficulties, she imagines those costs and sacrifices will only happen more often and escalate in scale.

The hot water soothes her aching, sore muscles, and she eventually succumbs to its seductive embrace completely. Thoughts of war and politics, death and torture, and morality and suffering slip away or are simply temporarily forgotten. The closest segue from these thoughts is Zenith—her newest resident on her ship—because he is a survivor of Balmorra and a new face.

Gaerwen lingers on the image of the sniper and guerrilla soldier as it takes shape fully in her mind. Jagged, rough features—purple eyes, sharp cheekbones, a permanent crease in his brow, and darker, vertical lines down his lekku. It's a clear image despite the uncertainty about his character and background, which are shrouded in mystery. She knows there's a degree of danger and violence behind his eyes—saved solely for the Empire and its collaborators—and she is not frightened or disturbed by it. It's not her place to judge or criticize.

Either way, she's eager to work with and get to know him.

With that, she finishes her bath and gets out in order to dry herself off. As the water drains out of the tub for the second time, she puts on a mildly scented lotion. Her fresh clothes are a welcoming change: a loose, cap sleeved burgundy colored dress ad matching slippers. Once dressed, she takes one last look at herself in her 'fresher's mirror and then leaves her quarters to head for the common room with hopes of crossing paths with the elusive sniper.


	2. Chapter 2

**Someone To Fight For**

Chapter Two

Gaerwen's hopes are squandered when she comes up the stairs to find not Zenith, but Tharan and Holiday talking. Tharan sees her and smiles broadly. It isn't whom she wished to speak with necessarily, but she's in too good of a mood to deny Tharan an interested ear. His predicament with the mysterious package from an unknown sender had intrigued her before, as she herself wonders what is inside.

"Ah, Wendy," he calls to her, beckoning for her to come towards the seating area. "Glad to see you've settled in after our fantastic adventure on Balmorra."

She folds her arms across her chest and awkwardly laughs. "Yes, right. A, uhm, adventure." She adds under her breath, "if you enjoy bug guts on your favorite robes." She sits down beside him on the couch. "It's good to relax after…" she grimaces, "adventures like _that_, I suppose."

"Holiday and I were just talking about the cannister I received. I was able to crack the lock's code and gain access to the capsule. This letter was inside."

"So progress, then."

"Isn't Tharan just a genius, Wendy?"

She smiles half-heartedly. "Of course."

"Thank you my dear Jedi, you're far too kind, but there's a new obstacle in this puzzle. I have been trying to decrypt the blasted letter's message." Tharan lets out a frustrated sigh. "Holiday and I can't seem to break it. We've tried deciphering techniques, but nothing! It's gibberish." He turns his head and meets Wendy's eyes. "Perhaps you will be able to lend some assistance."

"Please Wendy, won't you make this all better? My Tharan's been driving himself simply mad with frustration!"

She shrugs—she isn't a code-breaker by any stretch of the imagination. "I'll try to do whatever I can."

Tharan begins to recite strands of the code to her. It's strings of letters and numbers—but he's right, it's beginning to seem like a bad prank or a joke. After he finishes, Wendy blinks and brings her hand to her chin. She gestures to see the letter up close. It dawns on her after several minutes of silence—the simple solution to his predicament, and she knows he would have easily seen it had he not been in a rush or blinded by his ego. Despite having been silently angry with him over Balmorra, she decides it's best to preserve his pride and let him figure it out; thus, she takes a different course of action in helping him.

"Perhaps you need to take a step back. Start at the beginning. You might be over-thinking this. Maybe you've overlooked something?"

He lets out a frustrated groan. "My dear Jedi I've looked at this blasted thing from _every_ possible angle—"

"Just try it." She offers him the letter again. "One more time."

He shrugs and brings a hand to his bearded chin. "If you insist. Hm…'A', 'H', three, three…" a light glimmers in his eyes. He brings the letter to his nose, and she knows he's got it. "This isn't a code! It's a chemical formula."

"Why would someone send you that?"

"Perhaps the true message will be revealed when applying this chemical. Yes, that has to be it! I had thought the letter smelled strange before, but it is the letter itself!"

"You're going to need a full blown lab for it, aren't you? When we land on Quesh I could arrange—"

"Oh, oh, let me Tharan!" Holiday interrupts with a chirp. "I'll get it done in a snap."

"Of course my sweet."

"I'll get on it right away." Before Holiday's hologram disappears, she winks and blows him a kiss.

Tharan grins and leans back against the couch. "At last; it will be good to know what's on the message." Wendy nods. "However do you do it, my dear jedi? Your very presence sparks inspiration for my genius when I'm faced with troubles."

She smiles and curls a strand of hair behind her ear. "I'm just here to lend an ear. Someone to bounce ideas off of. Never hurts to have someone help in that manner. I didn't do anything special."

"Oh but you're quite wrong." He sits up straight and takes her hands. "You bring out the very best in me, Wendy."

She blinks and looks at his hands resting over hers, then meets his eyes again. She finds the statement superficial of him, but gives him the benefit of a doubt.

"You have ever since Nar Shaddaa." Tharan leans forward and whispers in her ear. "Let me properly show my gratitude to you, my honorably humble Jedi," he pauses, for effect she presumes, "in _private_, perhaps?"

Wendy pulls away from him and narrows her brows. "You're with Holiday, Tharan. I don't think you should be saying something like that."

He laughs. "My relationship with Holiday is complex. It has its…pleasures, of course, but there are simpler pleasures, no less valuable, but…_unconnected_, so there is no need for concern about your code's limitations."

_Smack!_

In a suddenly blurry, angry turn of events, Gaerwen leaves the common area in an orderly hurry, abandoning Tharan to the couch by himself, rubbing his red cheek.


	3. Chapter 3

**Someone To Fight For**

Chapter Three_  
_

_I can't believe that jerk!_

She shoves past a few other passengers on her ship caught in the cross-fire—she doesn't lift her head to see whom for fear of exposing her watering eyes and angry expression. She retreats for the quiet solitude of the cargo hold where she can sit amongst crates of supplies, armor, and machinery without being found. She sits amongst the stockpiles, hidden away from the other passengers who might seek her out for their own needs. She isn't interested in polite, proper conversation—certainly not with disgruntled, peeved diplomats demanding her attention.

Wendy sits with her knees pulled to her chest and her head down. Her body can't stop shaking, and she knows it's from further disappointment and all out disgust for Tharan's unwarranted behavior. Most importantly, she's confused—how could he have thought she would accept such an offer?

She had appreciated his compliments and intelligence, though she had not thought it any more than friendly conversation. _Certainly he couldn't have been serious?_

Either way, the damage is done, and though Gaerwen knows she should get up and put him squarely in his place, she's too embarrassed and cowardly even though she wants to defend the Jedi Order's honor and the value of the Code.

Eventually, she lifts her head in order to wipe her eyes, only to find Zenith sitting on a crate in front of her with his sniper rifle in hand. In the dim light from the engine's machinery and scattered overhead lights, the shadows play over his features. She makes out that he's wearing fresh clothes himself: a white shirt and dark colored pants. He isn't looking up, but instead is fixated on tinkering with the rifle's scope.

She gasps and quickly tries to erase her shameful, angry tears. He tilts his head momentarily and his eyes catch the light.

"How long have you been there?"

"A few minutes." He doesn't look up.

Gaerwen gapes, horrified. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"Didn't need to." He shrugs. "Knew you would look up sometime."

She raises a brow and wants to question him, but decides against it. In his presence she feels even more ashamed. This isn't how she imagined striking up a conversation with him.

_Little Jedi, crying over a jerk_.

As she starts to gather herself to stand and seek refuge elsewhere, he asks,

"What happened?"

"What?" She stops herself from adding 'do you care?'

"Obviously something happened."

She hesitates, but decides it can't get any worse—again, the damage is already done. "Disappointment in someone else."

"The coward?"

She tries not to laugh. "What gave it away?"

"Personality. Doesn't seem to care about watching your back as equally as his own."

With the gate opened, it all spills out. "He thought that just because I took interest in his work, that I wanted to…"

Zenith snorts.

"He put down my Order's code." Gaerwen sighs. "I don't even know why he travels with Jedi—seems all he wants to do is reject and stubbornly fight everything about the Force, and our beliefs when there's hardly any mysticism to it nowadays. There's tradition, but there's proven scientific research being done about the Force. He's a scientist, he knows there are legitimate dissertations out there—"

"He shouldn't fight what he can't beat."

Gaerwen laughs at the idea yet is completely astonished. She wipes her eyes again one last time and releases the last bit of residual anger away with a sigh.

"Thanks."

He looks up this time. "You're welcome."

She offers him a smile and watches as he returns back to the rifle. Gaerwen closes her eyes and rests her head against the cool metal wall. She listens to the hum of the engines and though she feels comfortable in their silence, she decides to take the opportunity if it's available.

"Do you mind if I stay down here with you for a little while?"

"Don't care; it's your ship." He pauses. "I reorganized the munitions locker between briefings. It's more efficient now. Did you have more orders?"

"You can relax, you know."

He glances toward her again. "Someone has to stay vigilant. Too many people on this ship. It's a good operation, but it could get unorderly quickly. Can't relax if things are a mess." He lifts up the rifle and shifts from cleaning the scope to calibrating it.

She notices a sudden change in Zenith's features, and quietly he states, "You sound like Grey Star."

"Grey Star? Is that a friend of yours?"

"Yes. An old one. Not important now."

She notices him grimace. She doesn't expect any further comments on the topic so she lets it go—everyone can have their secrets.

"You're a good marksman. You almost got me when we were inside the droid factory."

"Wasn't aiming for you."

"Well I knew that after the fact. I thought it was for me at first. You never know—the Empire's ranks have plenty of sharp snipers." She stretches out her legs and folds her hands in her lap. "It was a good shot. You would have had a clean kill had I not deflected it."

"Quick reflex."

"The Force was with me."

Zenith falls silent and stops working on the rifle. She knows he's chewing on something, and she raises a brow. Gaerwen gives him a moment, a chance to let him speak on his own terms, but the silence only continues and he still hasn't returned to his work.

She coughs politely. "Zenith?"

He snaps out of it and turns his head. He shrugs, mumbles something, and returns his attention to the rifle. She waits another moment, but it appears to her that he's not interested in saying what it was.

"C'mon," she teases, "what is it?"

Zenith doesn't hesitate. "I was surprised you let me kill that Imperial. You stepped aside. You surprised me. Expected you to tell _me_ to stand down. Expected you to want to take him prisoner."

Gaerwen pushes herself off the ground and stands before him. She runs a hand through her auburn hair and her expression falls serious. "It…it wasn't my decision. You're Balmorran. Not me. You knew that man's history more than I did. You knew that man's transgressions—it wasn't my place to decide."

"What if he had been innocent, and I'm just trigger-happy?"

Now she grins, chuckles, and shakes her head. "Because you're not. You seem a little reckless, sure, but you take care in deciding when to use that rifle. You don't blindly take life."

"That sounds like a lot of loaded Jedi talk."

"Well, you might think it is, but it's not meant to be. It was _your_ decision for _your_ people. If it had been my home planet, my people, I don't know if I would have taken the same choice. Coruscant's burned under Imperial flags before. People had to make decisions based upon the situation. I've seen the vids from the news, I've heard the stories from Jedi who were inside of the temple when it was attacked. I wasn't there, but I can empathize with the loss. Maybe this is me trying to rationalize the costs of war, maybe it isn't but it's…" she pauses and shrugs. "If I'm rambling, you really ought to stop me."

Zenith stares at Gaerwen without a clear expression on his face. Eventually, he turns his gaze away. "You stopped yourself, not me."

Gaerwen nods and glances toward the exit of the cargo hold.

"I guess I should be going. We'll be landing on Quesh soon. If you don't mind, Zenith, I'd like for you to come with Nadia and I. I don't know exactly what we're going into, so I'd like an extra set of eyes."

"I'll be there."

With that she turn and heads for the upper levels of the ship, feeling better than before.


	4. Chapter 4

**Someone To Fight For**

Chapter Four

Quesh isn't a planet she's eager to travel to after hearing the critical assessments from her traveling diplomats. The first sign of trouble is when Nadia, Zenith, and Gaerwen are forced to stop and receive a temporary vaccine on the orbital station for their own health and safety.

"The toxicity levels are really that terrible?"

The Selkath scientist nods and speaks in his own native tongue. Gaerwen's translator picks up most words. "Symptoms of over-exposure to Quesh venom include dizziness, headache, nausea, burning in the extremities, hallucinations, dry mouth and eyes, and eventual death."

The soldier fills in the appropriate gaps upon further inquiry about the planet. "The Three Families Hutts think they've got a clean operation with their adrenal factories save for the contracts they're making. Don't mind me soundin' metaphorical and all, but the toxicity from the venom extends beyond the land and sky. This planet's turnin' to be like Hutta in a few years time—everyone's wantin' a stake in the mines, but that's all. Run it dry until it's no longer any use. War's only makin' it worse."

"A fair and unfortunate assessment, from the sound of things."

"Well, you ain't comin' here for the sights, that's for sure."

"The atmosphere makes for beautiful sunsets, however," the scientist adds.

They receive their vaccines without any more grumbling than Nadia's uttered comment of apprehension against needles and the momentary recoil upon injection.

* * *

The second sign of trouble is when Nadia opens the lock and they proceed into the potentially comprised laboratory of Attis Station to discover the worst: it's too quiet. The situation becomes more dire when they see scientists fending for themselves against heavily armed Sith. Immediately Zenith pulls his rifle over his shoulder and Gaerwen lights her saber. Nadia remains at the computer terminal, looking for any signs of life from the security footage.

"Nadia," Gaerwen calls over her shoulder, "get to somewhere safe!"

"But there's scientists in one of the rooms—they're sealed off—I can get to them safely—"

The Jedi doesn't hesitate, they've already been spotted and if she's going to protect Nadia, she's better off with scientists than here in the fray.

"Fine. Just go!" she points toward the upper level ramp. She nods to Zenith. "We'll cover you."

Though the Sith try to intercept Nadia's path, she's too elusive and they face projectiles being thrown their way via the Force on top of a suppressive array of blaster-fire by Zenith. Once Nadia's safely out of the way, the real challenge arrives.

* * *

Only one Sith remains, and he's proving to be just as formidable as the others. Gaerwen is on the bottom level, and she's lost track of where Zenith is perched with his rifle. She doesn't know his combat rhythm well, having only seen his guerrilla combat technique on Balmorra—she's used to having to deal with Tharan's frantic avoidance of anything physical and occasional blaster shot from cover.

She flies backward, slamming into a large piece of machinery in Attis Station that's offline. She sees momentary stars flash across her vision. She slumps to the ground and tries to shake it off by attempting to stagger into a slouched standing position, Her shoulder and back sharply resist against movement, and Gaerwen collapses. Her auburn hair blocks portions of her vision, but she notices the Sith advancing toward her with his brightly burning, ignited lightsaber. Her hand gropes around in search of her own hilt, but she finds that it's been knocked out of her immediate grasp. Her hand opens in an attempt to pull it towards her via the Force. Her connection with the Force is weakened, however, and though the hilt shakes in response, it's not enough.

The Sith lets out a dark, mocking laugh—perhaps his last final blow to her pride. Gaerwen tries to force herself into a kneeling position, and though she manages it, her body reacts violently. She tilts her head up to see the Sith standing before her. The Pureblood's gold eyes glare down at her, its lips pulled widely into an ugly grin. Over its shoulder, she finally sees Zenith's perched position on the second level atop a set of crates. She reaches again through the Force for her saber with as much strength as she can muster. This time it flies toward her grasp.

Gaerwen hears both the shot and sees a violent flurry of green before her vision. The Pureblood's body falls forward, and she barely has enough time to pull out her saber and painfully roll out of the dead Sith's way. She groans loudly. She loses her grip on her saber and it falls to the ground, with the green blade sheathing itself. Her hand reaches up to touch her face and her eyes widen when she feels something wet, warm, and sticky on her cheek. She pulls her hand away and sees blood on her fingers. She hears him running toward her and a few moments later sees him leaning over her.

"Zenith," she rasps as she looks up at him through her blurry vision.

"Calm down, it grazed you." He shifts her head so that it's resting against his thigh. He tears a section of his tunic with his teeth and then roughly presses the cloth against her cheek. She yelps out in pain and he eases up. "Sorry. It's going to hurt."

Gaerwen nods slowly and closes her eyes. "Dead?"

"I had him. Didn't need you wasting your energy by stabbing him through the stomach. Shot him through the neck." He presses a little harder against her cheek when he sees fresh blood still sliding over the contour of her cheek. "Would've been a _completely_ clean shot had you not moved—_why_ are you grinning?"

"You're…you're mad," she opens her eyes. She laughs and immediately regrets it with a grimace, "…that I stole your kill."

"That's ridiculous." He narrows his brows and shakes his head. He removes the cloth and sees that the blood's beginning to coagulate. "Is it your shoulder?"

"Think so."

"Can't do much about it until we're back at the base."

"S'fine, I think I can—" she attempts to sit up and Zenith helps her by supporting her. Once in an upright position, she exhales loudly. Gaerwen looks over to her right and sees the dead Pureblood who's bleeding out from two wounds: a blaster shot to the neck and a lightsaber to the stomach. "_Team_ effort, I'd say."

Behind her, Zenith rolls his eyes and slings his rifle over his shoulder again. "We need to find Nadia."

"_Nadia_," Gaerwen breathes with a sudden panic in her eyes. "Right. Help me up."

He helps her into a standing position slowly and then lets her put all of her weight on his body, using him as a crutch. They take it one step at a time, but eventually they find a rhythm between putting one foot forward and then the other. Her left arm and shoulder grow numb, and she bites down on her lip and clenches her good fist in order to cope through the pain. Zenith is patient with her—he doesn't make any further comments about her "stealing" his shot, but instead offers what little vocal reassurance and support he can, if at the very least in his own gruff manner.

And for all of this Gaerwen is silently thankful—she knows she made the right decision in asking for Zenith to come with her on-planet. She knows that Tharan would not have been able to save her life. Now it's permanently sealed—she doesn't want anyone else watching her back but Zenith.


	5. Chapter 5

**Someone To Fight For**

Chapter Five

Gaerwen's in a cheery mood as she leaves her quarters on the ship. There's a spring to her step, amusement in her eyes, and an eager smile on her face. She's dressed in an emerald green dress that comes down to her calves. It's loosely cinched with a brown belt around her waist, and the dress' sleeves are shorter than most of her other casual dresses, so she can wear a sling more comfortably for her healing shoulder. She holds a brightly wrapped package with her good hand behind her back. Nadia's the only other person on her ship who knows what's inside, as the younger girl came with her to Coruscant's shopping district three days ago and had then offered a hand at wrapping it.

She heads for the lower levels and finds Zenith in the crew bunks instead of in the cargo hold. She peeks inside, hoping to be quiet enough to surprise him. She finds him sitting upon the edge of a bottom bunk, cleaning his boots. She sees that he's only dressed from the waist down. His ragged, torn tunic is sprawled out on the bed, and she remembers the purpose of her visit to his quarters; she clears her throat before she's caught. He turns his head and drops the boot in order to stand at attention. Her eyes follow his movement and fall abruptly to a large patch of scar tissue on his chest.

"Did you need something?"

Gaerwen lets out a sound that's a cross between a squeak and a hiccup unexpectedly. She blinks several times and tries to laugh off the embarrassing, uncharacteristic sound. "What? No—" she pauses. "No, I mean_ yes_. _Yes_ I came here with a clear purpose. Of course."

He raises a brow and folds his arms across his chest. She sighs in relief; she didn't want to be caught rudely staring.

"I brought you something." She reveals the present and offers it to him. He takes it hesitantly, and she wonders if there's a portion of his brain that's still in guerrilla-tactics mode, expecting it to be anything besides a gift, as his brows narrow in suspicion.

"You bought me a present?"

"It's nothing entirely special. Think of it as a," she half-shrugs, "… A thank you gift."

He nods and looks down at it. He sits down at the bedside again and begins to untie the purple colored ribbon, then the flowery wrapping paper. She comes further into the room and leans against the bunk-bed's post.

"Sorry about the paper, it was the only style they had at the store I went to."

Zenith laughs—_legitimately_ laughs—and she almost wants to reverse time so she could record it on her datapad: she imagines it's a rare occurrence. With the paper crumbled and placed aside, the remaining items inside of the box are a rolled up brown leather coat with fur on the inside, a creamy colored thermal shirt, and black pants that have several pockets.

"I ruined your other clothes," she gestures to the tattered shirt on the bed. "Granted, they were pretty ruined to begin with, I'll admit; this coat's durable, it should be able to survive a snow-storm and be able to keep you warm during one. I mention that since it turns out our next stop is Hoth." She gestures to the shirt and pants. "You need a change of clothes anyways. I imagine you wouldn't like any of what Tharan's wardrobe has."

Zenith doesn't look up, nor does he say anything. Instead, his fingers slowly trail over the rim of the coat. Gaerwen coughs awkwardly.

"I…I wanted to personally thank you for saving my life, Zenith." Her voice lowers. "I thought I was done for." She frowns. "I-I was ready to join the Force." Gaerwen sits down beside him. With her good hand, she reaches up and scratches her neck. "I, uh, hope you like it." Her frown deepens at the continued lack of a response. "Because if you don't, I mean, I can take it back, I _always_ keep my receipts—"

Zenith turns his head in her direction and stares. She wonders if he's counting her freckles with such an intense look. It makes her uneasy in a way she can't define—perhaps she would be weak in the knees, if she were standing. Eventually, he eases up and shakes his head. His eyes fall back to the clothes.

"No, of course not. I appreciate it. Haven't received a gift in a long time."

"Well I figured you would like something practical."

"Thought right." He glances back to her. "Thank you…Gaerwen."

"Oh, you can call me Wendy."

"Which do you prefer?"

"I don't mind either, really." She half-shrugs. "My cousin and I keep a written correspondence, and she's called me Wendy since we were young. She absolutely hates her real name, so to make her feel better I play along."

He nods and places the box of gifts on the ground, beside boots. He then points to her cheek. "How's it healing?"

Gaerwen pouts for effect and to lighten the mood. "Ack, does it sting!" She reaches up and rubs the small bandage there. "For just grazing me you got me good. Really glad you missed the ear."

He rolls his eyes.

"Oh, hey, don't feel like _you_ need to worry about it too much," she teases. "I'm just glad we got that Sith in time." She smiles thoughtfully. "I'm hoping that it won't scar too badly. Same cousin was telling me that I need to get more battle scars—apparently they're fashionable now."

Zenith snorts and folds his across his chest.

"It is difficult, though. Every morning I count my freckles, and it's hard with the bandage."

"Why?"

Gaerwen crosses her legs and twirls a strand of hair. "When I was little my mother would say that every freckle is a kiss from a Force-ghost. They mean that you're being watched over."

He raises a brow. She doesn't imagine that Zenith would put much into something so superstitious in nature. Her smile fades.

"It's just a way of remembering her. A daily part of my ablutions. I know that half of them are from her."

He doesn't say anything, and she wonders if perhaps he does understand to a degree. If there's anyone who knows about death more than her, it's Zenith.

"She had an illness. Couldn't do much about it." She sighs. "The jedi healers tried. It was something exotic—which makes unfortunate sense. She worked in the far outer rim. It was something they'd never seen before. Or at least in a long time. She was too far gone by the time she got to Tython anyways."

"I'm sorry."

Gaerwen gaze falls to nothing in particular. "It's alright. So long as I've got her freckles, she's with me." Her head turns when she sees him tentatively reach up and rubs one of his own cheeks.

"Don't have any."

"Nonsense, we all do. At least one." She scoots closer and pulls his hand away. It falls to resting against the sheet. She then searches his face, and when she's finally found one, she smiles softly and takes his hand again. With their joined hands, she guides one of his fingers over the small mark.

Her voice drops to a whisper. "It's right here. Small, but still there." It's difficult to hear even herself over the normal sounds of the ship due to being so close to the engine.

She pauses and meets his eyes. Due to being so close to him, she observes that his eyes are actually two shades of purple: darker around the center and lighter on the edges. But proximity adds more to the picture than just his eyes: Zenith's warm breath, the array of muscles in his hand and arm, and, if she allows herself to indulge, the slope of his sharper jawline, the weight in his eyes, the worry lines on his brow.

"Looks like someone's looking out for you on the other side, Zenith."

His eyes move back to her own at the mention of his name. They bore into her, persistent and determined. Her heart starts to stammer in her chest. It gets painfully worse when he lifts a hand and touches her unmarred cheek, dragging a finger over her own freckles—mirroring her gesture.

She's suddenly hyper-aware of everything and it makes her light-headed. She can almost feel him through the Force, feel his signature resonating stronger than any other living being on the ship. There's darkness there, and it burns her. She stays still as it washes over her in the metaphysical, rough and suffocating—but it's only the whirlwind around an eye of a storm. She senses light waiting there, protected by the outward storm.

Back in the physical realm, her pupils widen and she gasps for breath. The extrasensory experience is overwhelming and chaotic. Since she sees Zenith watching her just as closely, it prompts her to wonder if he can sense it too. There's something new, something dangerous about him in a way she can't explain without sounding like an ancient Jedi holocron in his presence. Either way, she's seduced by something new, something unknown.

The ship lurches violently before her one-sided, inappropriate exploration between the physical and the spiritual can become anything further.

"Wendy, the ship's entered an asteroid field just outside of the Hoth—" Tharan's voice booms over the intercom. She misses the rest of Tharan's request as she recovers herself by pulling away from Zenith. Her cheeks feel warm, embarrassingly too warm, and she makes a break for the door without another word.


	6. Chapter 6

**Someone To Fight For**

Chapter Six

"If the speechwriter, perhaps, becomes temporarily incapacitated, unable to write something for Fiskan, then I'll have the upper hand."

Wendy nearly chokes on her tea. She places her cup and plate onto the table and appears mortified.

"You might want to run this whole thing by me one more time."

Zenith sighs. "Nalen Fiskan is a decent orator if he's got a good speech. No speech, no good oration."

She blinks several times, completely incredulous. She wonders if she's hearing him right.

"Zenith you know that's a terrible idea."

"Nothing permanent, nothing painful. It'll look like an accident."

"Are you hearing yourself?" She gapes. "You're admitting to me that you're going to 'lightly' assault another man! A fellow Balmorran, at that!"

"Gaerwen, you don't understand. Balmorra needs strong leadership. Someone who is going to keep Tai in check. Someone who can side with the people."

"Well I think it's a rotten idea and I'm deeply saddened to hear you even suggest it." Wendy stands and paces before him. She runs a hand through her hair and is shaken. "You know," she stops and points at him. "I thought you were better than this."

Zenith scoffs and gives her a dark glare—one that is poisonous enough to make her angry. "You weren't there," he growls.

"No, I wasn't. And I'll never be able to understand the sacrifices Balmorra and yourself have made."

"Then I think you should butt out."

She narrows her brows and shakes her head. "I just…," she looks away from him and shrugs. "I don't understand why you need to do something like this. Why can't you just give a speech as well?"

When Zenith doesn't reply, she knows she's hit her target and realization comes over her.

"You're _kidding!_" Her voice grows. "Are you really thinking of beating up someone because you're afraid of public speaking?"

His eyes move to look at her own, he leers, and then quickly looks away again.

"How do you plan on being an opposition leader if you aren't comfortable speaking?"

"It's different."

"No, it isn't. People need to be spoken to. Speeches need to be made sometimes."

He sighs again and folds his arms, appearing to already be dead set on his own plan. Wendy hesitates, contemplates walking away and giving up, but decides to sit by him again.

"Zenith you need to realize a few things." She folds her hands in her lap. "One, you need to know that politics isn't a war. It especially shouldn't involve a guerrilla-tactics mindset. It's debating. Arguing. Frustration. But it's done in a civil manner. It's compromising and adapting. You don't need to lower yourself to corruption to succeed."

Zenith remains silent, though his hands tighten into fists. She senses anger and frustration. She places a hand tentatively on his hands, and he sharply turns to face her. His eyes are stormy, but she knows he's conflicted. She needs to reach him.

Wendy lifts a hand and touches his check as a gesture of comfort. Her eyes soften and her voice lowers. "You've won Balmorra. It's safe now. No longer will a Balmorran child be born under Imperial flags, in Imperial chains."

This breaks him, and the door's opened. He shuts his eyes, turns away, and her frown deepens. Her hand slips away from his cheek and returns to his hands to give them a squeeze. The anger fades and waves of remorse wash over him—she knows it keeps him up at night, the spirits of the dead, whether comrades in arms, fellow civilians, perhaps even loved ones and she knows he mourns each one. Sharing these emotions with him almost causes her to lose it as well, but she remains vigilant.

"Balmorra needs to heal and you will heal with it." She waits for a backlash, for the walls to rise again. She knows Zenith isn't sentimental, but the sentiment is sincere.

She swallows hard.

"I'll help you prepare something. Either we could write it together or you could write it and let me read it over or maybe you could just write it and we'll go from there. And if you want, you could say it to me as many times as you need to. We could stay up all night if necessary." She sighs and shrugs. "Because though you may think differently, I know you're better than what you perceive yourself as. You're stronger than that. More clever."

Zenith leans forward and runs his hands over his face, to rub at his eyes.

"I know how determined and stubborn you are. So ultimately you're going to have to either take a leap of faith with me or succumb to the behavior that…" she sighs and tries to swallow down her disappointment and disgust. "Well you might as well be Imperial."

When Wendy moves to stand, he stops her by grabbing her arm. It all happens in a flash of movement: he's pulling her close, cupping her healed cheek, and then he's kissing her. Her cheeks burn. She's too stunned to move, let alone remember to close her widening eyes. Raw emotion overwhelms her and it's sharp and jagged but it's purely Zenith and either way his lips are smooth. She can't think straight but a giddy voice reminds her that she's never been kissed before and maybe she should enjoy the opportunity.

It's over before she has a proper chance to respond. Wendy feels like the wind has been knocked out of her. She sits frozen, wide-eyed, and with her mouth slightly open.

When she does try to speak, it's all stammering and flushing cheeks. "I-I've never—well I wasn't at all," she pauses a runs a hand through her hair. "What were we talking about?"

"I'm going to write a speech."

"Oh," she nods and blinks. "Of course. Do you want help writing it?"

"No. I'll write it and you can read it over."

"Sure, sure. Sounds great." Gaerwen stands and gathers the tea pot and her cup.

"Well I'm just going to… Well I have some things to do. Important things."

He nods. As she starts to walk away, she hears him say, "Thank you, Gaerwen."

* * *

_Knock, knock._

Zenith looks up from his lit datapad and sees Gaerwen leaning against the door frame of her crew's quarters, dressed in a cream night-gown with a thick blanket around her shoulders. He sits up and rubs his eyes and crawls out of his bunk as quietly as possible so as to not wake Qyzen, Iresso, and Tharan in the other beds. He followers her to the nearby cargo hold so as not to disturb anyone else.

"You're up late." He stiffles a yawn.

"I-I couldn't sleep."

"The speech is coming along well."

"Really?" she hiccups and tries to smile. "That… That makes me happy to hear, Zenith."

They settle by the crates where they first shared a private conversation, only Wendy sits atop one of the crates and Zenith is leaning against the wall of the ship. He doesn't need to ask to know that something is amiss. She's visibly shaking and trying her best to keep it together. However, she hesitates.

"I…I was meditating before bed. Everything went fine. It's a relaxation technique. Clears the mind. Allows one to become in tune with the Force. Allows me to get sort and get rid of clutter." A pain spreads from her chest upward and she cannot hide it anymore. Her eyes close shut and she covers her mouth in order to muffle her sobs. Immediately Zenith moves forward and places his hands on her shoulders in support.

"Tell me what's bothering you," he urges as gently as he can.

Her hand slips away and she looks lost. "Oh Zenith, I went to sleep and… I had such a terrible dream," she reaches up and tugs at her hair. "It wasn't even a dream. It was like a living nightmare." She doesn't bother wiping away her eyes. "It was like drowning and being torn apart limb to limb. I felt his presence. His sick, vile, toxic presence."

"A Sith?"

Her body starts to shake as residual memories and sensations attempt to overcome and incapacitate her.

"Wendy!" He holds onto her shoulders in order to steady her. "Stay with me. Tell me what it was."

"It… it was the First Son. He was torturing me. V-violating me." She swallows hard and her voice trembles. She pulls the blanket over her head to ease her own shivering. "He didn't speak, and it was all so blurry, but I know his presence, Zenith. I've felt his Force signature before."

"Who's?"

"That—that's it, Zenith." Gaerwen looks up and sees the low lights creating shadows on his face. Her eyes feel heavy and her bones ache as if she's aged ten years. "It was someone whom I know is a good man. Someone whom I trust with my life. Someone I love as much as my own mother and father." She shakes her head. "It's impossible. The First Son can't… He can't be Syo." The same waves of terror return: her eyes widen and she struggles. "The Emperor's trying to trick me, trying to ruin me. He knows the people I love and he's going to do his damnedest to use them against me because he's scared. He knows I'm coming for him—knows that I'm going to hunt him down, that—that I won't take mercy, that I'll cut him down—"

"Gaerwen," he says quietly. "It was just a dream."

She shudders. Her eyes lower, and after several silent moments, she slowly nods.

Her voice falls to a whisper. "I-I just don't want to fall asleep and relive it again." She falls forward, clutches to Zenith's shirt, and presses her head against his chest. "Please," her voice cracks, "please don't let the Emperor do that again."

Zenith wraps his arms around her and holds her steady. She closes her eyes and focuses on his heartbeat. She grips him as if she's hanging from a cliffside.

"I promised to watch your back, didn't I?"

As the moments pass her body stops shaking and her breathing evens out. Eventually her cheeks dry. Her eyes fall heavy from exhaustion until she cannot resist any longer: she falls asleep standing in his arms.


	7. Chapter 7

**Someone To Fight For**

Chapter Seven

"I've never been to Tython," Lt. Iresso says as they step off of the shuttle and begin to head through the Jedi Temple's halls. His eyes are immediately alight with wonder and awe.

"You mean you were never reassigned here?"

He laughs and Wendy cracks a sheepish grins. "Good one."

"Oh, I try," she teases. "Anyone of the masters here will tell you that I inherited my father's bad jokes. They say I remind them too much of him."

"Does your father work here?"

"Nope. He's normally on Corellia with my godmother these days. They help whatever tenuous grip the Republic has on CoroNET City, and I'm sure you can guess how that is." She clasps her hands behind her back. "He visited Tython often during my training to give the council reports on war activity."

"He must be proud of you."

"Oh yes," she curls a piece of hair behind her ear and smiles to herself. "I know he is."

They turn a corner and enter the main sanctum. Wendy encourages him to explore on his own while she conducts her own business with the repaired Noetikons.

"Just be mindful of flesh-raiders if you go beyond Malakori village." As she turns to leave, she adds, "If you happen to cross paths with a man named Nalen Raloch, tell him that I hope he's well."

"You got it Wendy."

They part, and she heads for the chamber. She invited Iresso to accompany her because she wished to get to know him more during the shuttle ride—and she's glad she did. She especially enjoyed hearing him speak of his old comrades, though the name Jorgan sounded familiar. She knows she'll need to check her correspondence with Billie to be sure. Overall, Wendy finds Iresso to be pleasant, welcoming company, and moreover she's happy to see him settling in well amongst her mixed-bag assortment of crew members.

The halls of the Jedi Temple bring back fond memories for Wendy—of days spent chasing dark pasts, of fending off flesh-raiders, of pursuing the blade and fount of Rajavari, what would later become history in the making, and of learning about these truths from the gentle, guiding hand of Master Yuon Par. She knows that Qyzen will visit Yuon's grave on his own, and pay his respects in perhaps a similar fashion—through reminiscing of hunts long past with a younger Yuon and their long-standing friendship. He does not blame her for the loss, in fact, he admitted to her afterward that it was the right thing to do and that it took bravery to accept such a fate.

The halls of the Jedi Temple are more sombre now. Though many fellow Jedi greet her as she passes by, by her formal title of _Barsen'thor_, but there's little time to catch up. The threat of galaxy-wide war no longer looms but now the necessities of war in its place. Padawans of the order no longer trained to be truth-seekers or philosophers, but as soldiers and healers standing alongside the Republic against the Sith Empire on planets beyond Balmorra and Corellia.

She only lets herself think of the sorrow and sacrifices for a few moments, as it's too easy to believe that such feelings will linger in this war like festering wounds for years to come. What sacrifices made in the pursuit of justice? What gains or losses?—It's a matter best left solved by bureaucrats or the judgment of historians centuries from now.

A necessary yet unfortunate evil.

* * *

_Knock, knock, knock._

Gaerwen pulls her attention away from the datapad on the desk, rubs her eyes, and stands to open the door to her lodging on Tython. She opens it and sees Zenith leaning against the door frame. She gestures for him to enter the room.

"You're up late," she says after stifling a yawn. It's past midnight, and she's surprised to see him on planet. She sits down at the desk again. "I thought you were staying behind."

"It's finished," he pulls out a small datapad from his coat's inner pocket. "Wanted you to read it."

"Zenith it's past midnight."

"You're up, aren't you?"

"Barely," she laughs weakly. "I've just been pouring over some history while I have access to these files." She shrugs. "I was actually about to go to sleep, half-unwillingly at least. It's hard stuff to put down." She turns off the borrowed datapad and moves to sit down at the bedside. "But I'll take a look now. They say it's best to re-read stuff when you're tired. You catch mistakes easier when you're tired."

Zenith sits down beside her and offers his device after opening the text-file. Gaerwen falls back against the bed and starts to read. As she does so, however, she's partially interrupted by his own fidgeting; eventually it becomes bad enough that she stops altogether.

"You don't need to be this anxious. I'm liking what I'm reading, Zenith." She looks back to the text. "In fact I think you're a great writer."

He shrugs, and she returns to reading. She makes mental notes of the document: his style is terse, to the point, and his argument appeals to his sense of justice and emotion. There's no poetry or flare: it's the facts presented clearly and concisely. Yet it's the last line that causes her to pause: "We have won Balmorra. Balmorra is free. Get used to saying it. No longer will a Balmorran child be born under Imperial flags, in Imperial chains."

"You… You quoted me." Her cheeks flush.

"Figured it would be a good way to end the speech."

She nods and hands him back the datapad. "Well now let's hear it." She props herself upright. "Tell it to me like how you'd tell your audience."

Zenith then begins his speech, and it's clear he has already memorized most of it. Yet it also becomes clear that he's never presented a formal speech to anyone before and how anxious it makes him. He's too fast, too choppy, and his tone istoo gruff.

She lifts a hand and asks him to pause.

"Take a few deep breaths." She waits for him to do so. "Now I want you to start over, but slowly say the words. If you speed up, I'm going to stop you and you're going to start over."

He doesn't contest the terms, and starts again. It takes him several tries to get through the first half at an even pace. After the seventh or eighth stop, she knows he's becoming more frustrated with himself. On the ninth, he groans and throws his hands up into the air.

"This is pointless, Gaerwen."

She frowns and shakes her head. "On the contrary you're getting better. The more comfortable you are saying these words, the easier it will be to slow down. You need to relax. Let people get to know you." She reaches forward and takes his hand, giving it a squeeze. She then meets his eyes and smiles. "Try it one more time." He looks down. Zenith grunts and appears skeptical with himself and the decision to choose this path rather than incapacitating Fiskan's speechwriter.

"There's nothing to know. This is me."

"Zenith," she drawls out the first syllable, "Please, trust me."

His eyes flash back to her own, and it's that same look as before. It makes her blood run hot and her pulse stronger. She tries to not think about him kissing her, and instead reminds herself to focus on the matter at hand. With a sigh, Zenith complies.  
This time he nails it; she doesn't stop him because she knows he's got it. Slower, steadier words, and because of this growing success as the speech continues, his confidence shows.

"See?" She smiles brightly. "Tenth time's the charm. You did well, Zenith. I'm proud to see you following through with my advice. You should give yourself more credit. Your talents extend beyond the trigger."

It's charming to see him humble and modest, she decides, because it's rare. The battlefield makes him cocky, makes him proud because he knows he's good at getting the job done in whatever fashion.

They decide to pick it up the next free time where they're both available. He gathers himself and his datapad, and she tries to keep herself awake, just for a few more minutes.

"Are you staying here or going all the way back to the ship?"

"Planning on finding something here."

Gaerwen nods, stands up, and follows him to the door. He steps outside into the cooler, quiet hallway of the small cantina's guest lodgings. It's much cooler, and Gaerwen folds her arms in order to warm herself. The music is empty from the air, and only the peaceful sounds of a sleeping Tython welcome their ears.

Zenith thanks her again and bids her a good rest, quietly and without much emotion in his voice. His expression is blank, and his eyes are just as tired as her own. He turns to leave but Gaerwen stops him by gently touching his arm. His head turns.

"What?"

She freezes and her lashes flutter. Her blue eyes widen and she almost forgets her request. The table's have turned and she has stage fright. She lowers her gaze, but feels his eyes on her regardless.

"What is it Gaerwen?"

"I-I," she swallows hard. She raises her gaze and bites her lip. "I was wondering if you would," her voice softens, "I was wondering if you might kiss me again."

Zenith touches her chin and tilts her head so that once again they're meeting eye to eye. His calloused hand lightly moves over her cheek, rubbing her freckles, and trailing downwards to trace the line of her lips. They part slightly as she breathes in sharply, and she moves closer to him, craning her neck, and meeting him half-way. This time she knows to enjoy the strange, new sensations and not to be alarmed or surprised by them. He's warm against her, and as she gradually slides her hands over the leather of his coat in order to wrap her arms around his neck, she too becomes warm. For someone so rough and coarse behind a trigger and a scope, Zenith is gentle and perhaps timid in waters such as these. Her fingers draw lazy circles on the back of his neck and at the beginnings of his lekku, and it procures a low grunt from his lips.

It's mostly a chaste, simple kiss, but it's enough to make Gaerwen giddy. When they part, she remains close.

"You can stay, if you'd like. It's a large enough bed and I promise I don't snore."

Her blissful smile fades when he untangles himself from her arms and takes a step back. His face is stone and his eyes are difficult to read. Dread washes over her in a quick flash of panic. She fears that she's knowingly crossed a boundary and the situation needs to be rectified. She reaches out for him but he's already walking away.

"Look, Zenith, I'm sorry, that was—"

He stops, glances over his shoulder, and quietly says, "You need to get your sleep."

She watches him leave with his hands in his pockets, and it leaves her both confused and cold—she hopes that he might change his mind. Yet once he's turned the corner and out of sight, Gaerwen frowns and closes the door and crawls into bed in order to battle doubt and try to reconcile with her own conflicting emotions.

* * *

_Knock, knock, knock._

Gaerwen swings her legs over the side of the bed, since she has not fallen asleep yet. Her body is completely exhausted, and she's frustrated with herself.

_Just an hour of rest, is that so hard to ask for?_

Her mind races as if she's had three cups of caf, and it isn't agreeing well with her. She yanks open the door and is about to say something likely rude and unwarranted to the likely innocent person on the other side of the frame. But words escape her when she sees that it's Zenith leaning against the door, equally as tired-looking as her.

"You came back," she whispers as her mouth gapes slightly. "Why did you come back?"

"Can't sleep."

Gaerwen narrows her brows and folds her arms across her chest. "And what makes you think that I've been awake all this time?"

"I've seen your expression on soldiers in the Resistance before." He shrugs. "You're angry with yourself for being unable to fall asleep."

"What makes you think that my offer's still available, huh?"

Zenith smirks. "Because _you_, Wendy, owe me a favor for letting you sleep in my bunk a few nights ago."

"Is that all you think of? Deals and owing people and making sure everything's equally squared out and that everyone's properly paid up for their wrongdoings?"

"It get's the job done one way or another."

Gaerwen sighs and opens the door to let him inside. He's no longer wearing his coat, but instead the cream colored shirt and the dark pants she gifted him.

"You're downright wicked, Zenith," she says as she falls backwards onto her bedsheets. "Depraved and heinous and plenty of other nasty words that are too vile for me to say, being the good and innocent little Jedi that I am, after all."

He sits down on the opposite side and chuckles. She pushes her loose hair away from her face, cranes her neck so that he can see her equally mischievous smirk.

"Should try living life a little more dangerously." He lays back in the bed parallel to her.

Gaerwen props herself up and leans over him. "I thought having a rebel like you in my life would be a decent enough risk."

They both then settle atop the sheets in the proper way, and she lays on her side and looks at him with heavier eyes. "Goodnight, Zenith. Sweet dreams."

He cracks open one eye and offers her a small, all-too-rare smile that fades just as quickly as it appears. "You too."

This time, they both fall asleep with greater ease.


	8. Chapter 8

**Someone To Fight For**

Chapter Eight

"Well, I once visited," she scoops a decent serving of her favorite breakfast treat, Gizka-O's, into her mouth. "This one," she says between chews, "place on Alderaan. It's quiet, secure." She spins her spoon in between her fingers. "In fact I think it's just the place you're looking for to bring these refugees."

"I've arranged meeting them with their leaders. They'll come to Alderaan, and I'll take them home."

Wendy nods and pours herself more cereal. "So tell me more about this journal you found."

"They're Grey Star's journal entries. Most were destroyed by the Imperials, but there was a squad sent to Nar Shaddaa for a mission, hadn't left. Had copies."

"Sounds like he wanted to protect his ideas. Put them into more than one hand."

"In case what happened, happened. Plausible."

"So you went while Qyzen and I were on Hoth. Told that squad the good news, took the journal, and you're still decoding them?"

"Slow process, but yes. Grey Star wrote in shorthand, tough to decipher." Zenith leans forward and clasps his hands beneath his chin. He appears pensive. "There's so much history. It's…strange to read about people I knew."

Wendy quirks up a brow. He glances up and then sighs. "Almost feels like they're alive."

She stops eating and nods. "I imagine that isn't easy."

"It's necessary. Need to get whatever information Grey Star left behind for Balmorra's sake."

She stops eating her cereal and shakes her head. "You can't shrug off those sorts of feelings, Zenith."

"How un-typical of a Jedi to say something like that."

She rolls her eyes. "Emotions aren't bad things. There's a difference between recognizing and dealing with them versus ignoring them, letting them bottle up, and then exploding." She pauses and gauges his reaction before continuing. "What were their names?"

"The most mentioned is an operative named Chemish-Or. She led the squad that was infiltrated by the Empire."

"Yes, I remember you mentioning that that was how Grey Star died—an Imperial assassin."

"There's just mentions of her in plans and tactics. A bombing in Sobrik, hacking into Imperial terminals, training soldiers." He unclasps his hands and sits up. "Chemish was a good soldier. We thought alike. Grey Star trusted us. He put a lot of faith into her. She trusted the would-be operative, trusted her too easily, and killed Grey Star. It nearly killed the rest of us. We scrambled to regain our ground. Had to figure out who was a traitor and who was loyal to Balmorra."

"I'm sorry about your comrades."

"Don't be. I'll ensure that she and every other Balmorran didn't die in vain."

Wendy nods and returns to her cereal. She takes a few bites to fill the awkward silence. Eventually, the silence bothers her enough to speak up again. "So you must be happy then that the refugees will be coming home. They'll need good news."

"Aiding these people is a duty. They'll help with the rebuilding efforts. More voters too and good publicity. Should sway undecided voters."

"Always the practical sort, aren't you?"

"It gets the job done."

"Okay _Mr. Practical Pants_." Wendy sighs and shakes her head. Zenith doesn't even raise a brow; his expression is difficult to read. "Oh that was terrible. You don't need to even gratify that with a response."

Wendy returns to her cereal and Zenith takes a drink from his own mug of caf.

"Do you want me to go with you to Balmorra for your speech? It's scheduled two days from now, correct?"

"No, I'll go alone. Going to travel to Alderaan after for the refugees, then back to Balmorra. Leaving today, in fact."

They've stopped at the fleet to refuel and restock on supplies before going to Hoth in order to find further information about the Rakata's ancient army for the war effort. The rest of her crew is enjoying the fleet for a small period of shore leave.

She frowns. It doesn't take two days to get to Balmorra from Carrick Station.

"I'll be back in time for your return to the fleet."

"Well," she shrugs, "if you insist."

"You've got work elsewhere. You need to keep at it." His eyes fall on her own, and he holds her stare sternly. "The Children of the Emperor need to be handled as quickly as possible if the Republic's going to have an edge. You can't have the Emperor infiltrating ranks and getting classified information. You need to find out who the First Son is."

Wendy averts her eyes. She pushes away the bowl of cereal, having suddenly lost her appetite. She reaches up to rub her eyes.

"Of course, I know. I'm _well_ aware of what needs to be done."

Zenith pushes back from his seat, stands, and rinses out the mug at the sink. "I need to get going to make the shuttle."

"Are you wearing_ that_," she gestures towards his clothes, "for your speech?"

He sighs in annoyance. "What else am I going to wear?"

Wendy tries not to smile, but can't help it. She digs into her robe's pocket and pulls out a small credit chit.

"Take this and buy yourself a nice new set of clothes. It doesn't need to be anything superfluous or flashy, but something that doesn't have blood stains on it." She raises a hand to silence his protest. "I don't use much of my own money. I insist and it's non-negotiable."

Zenith scowls and glances to and away from the chit, but eventually snatches it up with a grumble.

"And don't forget what I told you. Slow, even, and raise your voice to add emphasis only—"

"When necessary, I know."

Wendy nods and folds her hands. "Well then, I guess this is where we say goodbye for now and that I wish you the best of luck, Zenith."

He waits a moment, stares down at the credit chit in his hand, before depositing it into his pocket. He lifts his rifle and settles it on his back with the strap crossing his chest. He takes one look at Wendy, whose eyes are fixated upon him. She feels something stir in his Force Signature, but whatever she hopes it is, it's marginal and guarded. She meditated over the events of Tython, on her own wishes, and had come to terms with their potential consequences and implications if anyone else found out.

Wendy's heart sinks when he turns and starts walking away without saying goodbye—something she expected from him at the very least. Though her expectations were low, she nonetheless hoped for more.

She gets up from the table and goes to sink and leaves her dishes there. She heads for her quarters, to pack her backpack for Hoth—to do something else to keep her mind occupied. Ultimately the mission is the most important; everything else is simply fruitless, blind and foolish hope. As she passes by the stairs leading down to the airlock, she sees him standing there, punching in the code to open the door.

Wendy contemplates letting him go and perhaps reconsidering her previous sentiments—of perhaps looking too deeply into their shared time together. The other half wants to follow him, to catch him before it's too late. The latter wins out, as it always does.

"Zenith—" she says as she walks down the stairs, catching up to him. She touches the sleeve of his coat, but he shrugs it off. "Aren't you at least going to say goodbye?"

He hesitates. Moments pass, and he glances over his shoulder and growls, "Don't get yourself killed while I'm gone."

The airlock opens to the fleet's hangar bay, and he leaves without saying anything more.

This time, Wendy doesn't watch him go.


	9. Chapter 9

**Someone To Fight For**

Chapter Nine

Lt. Iresso and Wendy spend four days on Hoth. She is happy that Iresso, despite having a resentment towards Hoth, still offers to come with her in order to offer protection while she excavated the ancient statue locked in ice. His cheery nature keeps her buoyant amongst the pirates, the blizzards, and what little wild-life they encountered. He knows that she is partially preoccupied, despite her best efforts of concealing it. The chill of the frozen planet soon gets her focused. It's cathartic to be somewhere cold and desolate.

Before they take the shuttle back to the orbital station, Iresso offers to buy her a drink in the cantina.

"C'mon, my squadmates and I always bought a drink after a successful mission."

She doesn't deny him the bit of nostalgia, despite her initial worry of being bad company. The exact opposite happens—Iresso's fantastic company is enough to brighten her mood.

"Tell me a story about you and Jorgan." Wendy takes a large drink and grins. "A funny one."

"So you know how I said Jorgan was always a hardass, well…"

They share an evening full of laughs, and she reveals the fact that Billie, her cousin, is the new commanding officer overseeing Aric Jorgan.

"You're kidding me!" He shakes his head and can't help but laugh. "Still working under someone else, huh? And here I thought he'd have become a general by now."

"Don't get your hopes up too high," she smirks and pauses for dramatic effect. "My cousin just so happens to be the commander of Havoc Squad."

Iresso's jaw drops and he raises a brow. "Now you're really pulling my leg." He looks around and scratches his head. "Is this some kind of Jedi mind trick?"

Wendy shakes her head and chuckles. She waves her hand mystically and states. "You will believe me, Lieutenant Iresso, and you will buy me another drink."

He plays along even though there's clearly no Force persuasion necessary. He buys her another drink, lemonade, and grins.

"I think that's a better position than being a general," he says with a serious expression. "Well, maybe. Generals have plenty of paperwork. Jorgan hates paperwork."

"If you want, Billie and I could arrange an evening where the four of us go out to dinner sometime. We could keep it a secret. Surprise him that you're the other guest." She sighs. "When all this is over, of course."

Iresso quirks up a brow, but smiles nonetheless. "You've got a deal Wendy."

At some point, Lt. Iresso gets into a drinking contest with one of his old friends from Aurek base. She discovers that he's a complete light-weight and he's doomed the moment he agreed to the contest. So doomed, that he passes out after the fifth shot of Hoth Ale. The champion of the drinking contest however offers to help drag him back to Wendy's ship.

* * *

The evidence of a Rakata army is significant and ground breaking, even if it frightens some of the other diplomats traveling with her. She knows their fears are well-placed, and she's glad to hear that they are accepting of the fact that not all of them were savage, mindless killers. Ultimately they won't know whether or not thousands of years of stasis have stewed a desire for revenge against their captors, turning a potential asset into a huge mistake, until they find and extrapolate the Esh-Ka for Republic use. Regardless it's another on the list of necessary evils.


	10. Chapter 10

**Someone To Fight For**

Chapter Ten

They stop back at the fleet a day earlier than arranged to meet Zenith and continue on their way to their next mysterious destination—a planet unknown to her and everyone else on her ship, Belsavis. As she steps off of the landing ramp with the intention of doing some much-needed restocking of Gizka-O's, she's surprised to see Zenith camped out in her own private, designated hangar, sitting against a wall as if he's been waiting for their arrival. He gathers himself and heads toward her.

"Shouldn't you be on Balmorra?" Wendy asks as he approaches her.

Immediately she realizes it's the wrong question to ask. His expression immediately flares up—brows narrowed, hands and teeth clenched, eyes dark. She's never seen him this angry before, let alone this expressive. Once again his Force Signature is chaotic and overwhelming. Though she compared his previous uncharacteristic outburst to a hurricane before, she clearly can say that she had no idea what she was talking about—_this_ is a hurricane, or perhaps a nightmare.

Zenith doesn't acknowledge her and he storms past her as if she isn't physically present. She takes a deep breath. _Gizka-O's can wait_, she decides.

She follows after him, though at a distance, back onto her ship, and she hopes with all her being that he doesn't run into anyone foolish enough to try to strike a conversation with him. Thankfully, the caveat is clearly written across his face: _Do. Not. Disturb._ She tells those that she crosses paths with to do their business on the fleet while they can, because they aren't spending more than a few hours there.

Zenith heads to the quietest place on the ship, the cargo hold. By the time Wendy's caught up with him, she sees that he's standing against the starboard-side metal wall, leaning his forehead against the cool surface. She can almost hear his thoughts through their Force bond like loud, angry shouting—a contrast to his outward appearance. It doesn't frighten her, but it does worry her. She's never seen someone such as Zenith this distressed before.

"Zenith?" She asks with caution, regardless of whatever trust she places into him. "I know you probably don't want to talk about whatever happened, but I'm not the sort to let something like this slide by."

He snorts and turns around to address her. "Typical Jedi."

"Typical or not, I'm concerned."

"You're always _concerned_," he growls, and she picks up his sarcasm.

"That's awfully terrible to say." Wendy's expression hardens. "Though I guess you wouldn't really know what concern is, given the whole," she adds air-quotes for emphasis, "'don't get yourself killed' trash."

She folds her arms and sighs. "Why can't you just be forward? Why all the storming off and grumbling and being cryptic?"

Zenith doesn't reply.

"Well I'm not going to leave until you tell me what happened." She shifts her weight and bores her eyes into the back of his head. She wants to get him to talk. She decides that fighting fire with fire is the best course of action. "If you don't believe me, you'll believe it soon enough. I don't want the rest of my crew being bothered by your _tantrum_."

This sets him off.

"My _own_ people," he snarls. He pounds his fist into the wall. "Can't even trust my _own_ people."

"Take a deep breath, and explain what's going on."

"Those refugees, I wanted to bring them home, everything was already set up. Was waiting for the shuttle to Balmorra's orbital station, for the shuttle to Alderaan. I'm sitting there, deciphering more of Grey Star's journals—I found out why he didn't want me reading them."

"Why wouldn't he want you reading them?"

He sighs. "Journal says these refugees negotiated with local Imperial officials. For food. Medicine. Protection."

"Zenith, obviously these people were desperate, as everyone is during war, they needed to stay alive, feed their families, protect their children—"

"Not good enough!" The harshness in his voice makes her tremble. "Imperial scum would have offered anything to gain intelligence about Balmorra! How _many_ gave in, Gaerwen? How many civilians gave in and got my people _killed?_"

She remains quiet, too speechless to even utter a single word.

"Grey Star, he let it happen—he knew I'd retaliate, he knew that I wouldn't let these people get away with collaborating with the enemy. He kept this from _me!_"

Gaerwen swallows hard and finds her voice again. "He clearly didn't want these people punished for what they did."

"He was too trusting, him and Chemish, and it got them both killed—"

She steps forward and pulls his shoulder in order to turn him around so that they're standing face to face. "Zenith, there's nothing you can do about that. Continuing to think this way isn't going to bring them back, isn't going to change the fact that Balmorra's standing on an already shaky foundation. The people you need to be angry at are Imperials."

"Collaborators might as well be Imperials!"

"It doesn't work like that. The Imperials pushed those people to their breaking points, and they did what they thought was best."

"Collaborators die. Or live in a cell."

"And what are you going to do? Arrest them when they are revealing themselves to you in good faith? You can't do that!"

"They are going back to Balmorra. In chains. I arrest the guilty. Justice is served. They get the mercy the Imperials showed us in the trenches."

"Zenith, you have to pardon these people for their mistakes or the Imperial occupation will never end." She tries to keep her voice as steady as possible. "You're letting Darth Lachris win, even in death, if you adopt her tactics. You need to stop reverting to this mindset, or you're going to drive yourself insane from paranoia and fear."

He falls back against the metal wall and runs his hand over his face. "I'll prove my devotion to Balmorra if they arrive in chains."

"Is this justice, or is this ambition, Zenith?"

His hand falls away and she sees that he's tensed up. "My goals are always for Balmorra."

"Haven't you proven your devotion countlessly? Haven't you proven it through your own sacrifices, your own determination, your own loyalty? Give these people the right of due process. Meet their leaders and tell them that you know they worked with Imperials. Tell them they you'll give them a chance to prove their innocence. They can repay the sacrifices of the dead in some other way."

He snorts.

"If you let your anger blind you, you won't be making a clear decision. I think you need to take a step back and look at what you're really fighting for. Because I think you've lost sight of it, and with it, you're going to lose the faith of the Balmorran people." She takes a step back and looks down. "It's ultimately your decision, Zenith. Just don't make a decision you're going to regret one day."

Wendy sighs. She looks back up at him and no longer averts her eyes. "Think about the future of the people, not about the future of those already lost; there's nothing you can do for them. Think about how you want to be remembered. History will be the judge."

Finally he bows his head and closes his eyes.

"I'll figure it out."

She nods, and as she senses the storm fading, senses the light coming through the clouds, she lowers her voice. "Maybe you needed someone to fight for afterall. The Empire fights for land, for property, for money—for death and violence and chaos. So if you've got someone to care for, someone to stand for… it's stronger than ideals and land. It's personal, it's got more meaning. It reminds you that when everything's said and done, you fought the war for people."

She looks over her shoulder, and decides she's had enough of this dreadful conversation. She frowns. She adds one more thought before she turns and leaves. "And though you might think that's a bunch of Jedi nonsense, I want you to know that it isn't. It's how I get through each day. I think about my mother and the happiness she gave my father. I think about my cousin who's fighting this same terrible fight. And I think about you, Zenith."

Gaerwen closes her eyes and shrugs. "I think about you a lot. I think about the kindness you've shown me. Despite all your rough edges, you're someone worth fighting for."

With that, she walks away.


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note**: _This is the only chapter that is T+._**  
**

* * *

**Someone To Fight For**

Chapter Eleven

Wendy sits up and rubs her tired, aching eyes. Her datapad is off, and as her hand falls to her cheek she feels the indentation of the datapad. She's fallen asleep reading more about the Esh-Ka from ancient files, what little is available. As she staggers upright from the chair, she sees that she is still dressed in her regular clothes, which are dark grey pants and a brown, short-sleeved shirt. The time readout is a little past midnight, and she runs a hand through her hair. Her throat feels dry and scratchy, so she decides to grab a blanket, wraps it around her frame as if it's a cloak, and heads for the small kitchen.

The ship is dark besides the few emergency lights lighting her path to the kitchen. She makes it without stumbling into anything, at least anything important. Her body and mind is sluggish and exhausted. Stinging eyes, an aching back, and stiff shoulders—she wonders how she'll be able to fall asleep again.

The kitchen too is empty and dark save for a shadowy figure lounging by one of the large windows. The light switch is momentarily difficult to find, but once it's found, the room illuminates dimly. One of the lights is busted and she makes the groggy mental note of getting it replaced.

"We need to stop meeting like this," Wendy says as she walks to the counter, grabs a mug, and receives hot water from the tap upon adjusting it. She isn't over their previous discussion and it's residual consequences, but she knows it's out of her hands.

He doesn't reply save for a grunt. She takes a tea bag from her small collection and goes to sit across from Zenith on the small couch beside the window. As she waits for the tea to diffuse, she leans her head against the ship's wall.

"Why are you up?"

"Couldn't sleep. They're counting up the votes on Balmorra right now."

"Oh, good." She blows cool air onto the surface of the tea and then takes a sip, only to cringe—still too early.

"Speaking of," she yawns, "you never told me how the speech went."

His eyes flash towards hers. "The crowd responded well. I stole Fiskan's momentum. His was good, but mine was better."

Wendy smiles softly. "It wouldn't be very humble and modest of me to say what I'm about to say, but," her smile turns into a grin, "I told you so."

Zenith nods appreciatively. Wendy tries her tea again and this time it's warm enough to enjoy. She reaches through the Force and feels him there, and she relaxes—his presence is calm and open despite the lingering threads of nervousness. She wonders if perhaps he wanted to come to her, to have her with him when the news came, as support, regardless of the outcome.

She hesitates—she isn't in the mood for an argument—but asks, "What did you decide about the refugees?"

"I sent them home," he glances back to her and holds her gaze. "They're under arrest for collaborating with the enemy." His voice is even and more diplomatic in tone, unlike before. He's no longer resentful or angry. "They'll be given a chance to pay for their crimes through the rebuilding of Balmorra. Reparations, in a way."

"I think you made a good choice, or at least the most level-headed one." She takes another sip of her tea and sighs.

"Whatever happens, Gaerwen, I'm…sorry for my behavior."

"Apology accepted."

Zenith's datapad lights up with a message and he looks down. His expression is stoic, though she can see the answer in his eyes.

"I won. I'm… I'm opposition leader."

Gaerwen smiles from ear to ear. She raises her mug to him and congratulates him. Zenith runs a hand over his face, as if he is astonished by the fact that he actually won.

"I'm sure Nalen Fiskan isn't pleased."

"If he's unhappy then I'm happy."

She smiles mischievously until the reality of the matter sets in, and it ruins her good mood. As she lifts her cup, she murmurs over its brim, "I'll tell Holiday to set a course for Balmorra in the morning."

He raises a brow."Why?"

"Well I imagine your constituents would like to see you doing your job."

"Can work as a leader from a distance until you're finished gallivanting across the galaxy."

"_Gallivanting_," she laughs and rolls her eyes, "hardly doing that."

"Tai and I can speak via the Holo, and when it's necessary I can take a shuttle there and be back in a day or so."

"You're sure?"

"Of course." He shrugs, places the datapad aside, and then folds his arms across his chest. He looks out the window and shrugs. "I've got my future to think about."

She hums in agreement. Her own gaze falls to the stars, to the perceived emptiness of space. She takes another sip of her tea and finishes it. "And what do you think it holds?"

"Pushing the Empire back as far as possible." She can almost feel the sparks in his voice. His fervor is still strong.

"I'm sure that will be good for morale back home."

He nods, and they both fall silent again. Wendy places her now empty mug on the ground, moves closer to him, and pulls the blanket around her more due to the cold.

"I couldn't have done this without your help," he begins, breaking the silence, "I wouldn't have had the edge if it weren't for you."

"You would have broken a few kneecaps, granted, and I won't condone that as an optimal means to political power, but I'm sure you would have succeeded in the end."

"Doesn't matter what I didn't do. And I wanted to say thank you." He straightens and extends a hand, to which she takes after a moment of astonishment. "I'm done living in the past. Future's more important, for Balmorra's and mine."

Wendy nods and lets her hand fall away.

"I want to stay and fight the Empire with you."

"You know you're most welcome." She sighs. "Afterall, who'll watch my back if not for you? I…I meant what I said down in the cargo hold. I do think about you a lot. Sometimes I can't sleep because of it, and I'm sure you think that's bad form because it makes you tired when it matters most, but sometimes it's easier said than done."

"I know."

"My mother," her voice lowers a few octaves, "when she was in the final stages of her illness, she tried to pack in all the life lessons into what time she had left," she raises a hand and touches Zenith's cheek, running a finger over his one freckle. "She said to me, 'If you ever meet someone, someone who you really care about, make sure they're worthy.' Now I never really understood what she meant, but I think I do now. I always thought she meant, make sure they're worthy enough to risk falling to the Dark Side for. At least that's what so many people told me.

"But that interpretation was way off base. I think she meant for me to make sure they're worthy of my time and my heart—if you'll pardon the sentimentality."

Wendy swallows hard; it's all on display now, there's no turning back. He stares at her as if he's studying a piece of art or an artifact. His hand comes up and the blanket falls away from her face as he runs his fingers through her hair, slowly and gently.

"You think I'm that someone?" He sounds genuinely surprised.

"I," she blushes, "maybe—I'd like to think so. When I'm with you, you challenge me. I mean, you and I, we look tough, we talk tough, but we're just— I don't know. You make me laugh—_yeah_, that's right, I hear your little _snarky_ comments during the briefings." He chuckles. "I don't know, I'm really just rambling. It's late, and tomorrow we'll be on Belsavis." She pokes his chest. "And you're coming with me to that planet. If there's anyone who can fight off potentially crazed Esh-Ka with me, it's you."

Zenith takes her head in his hands, and his fingers are light against her skin. "You need to sleep."

She sighs and closes her eyes. "You're right. No sense in staying up any later." She opens one eye and smirks. "Don't need _two_ grumpy people in the morning. No amount of caf in the world could assuage it."

She slides off of the couch and with their hands clasped together, she pulls him through the dark hallways toward her quarters. They pause before the door, and it's clear that this is where the line is: Zenith's never entered her quarters, though they have shared a bed once on Tython.

"Goodnight," he presses a kiss to her forehead, and before he can turn and leave, she stops him.

"_What?_ No—" finally, a test of her own resolve, "_stay_. Stay with me." She swallows and then adds, "If you'd like, of course."

Zenith takes a step towards her, and she falls back against the metal door. He places his palms against the surface on either side of her head. He leans forward and kisses her, traces the curve of her lips with his tongue, sucks on her lower lip—terribly wicked and yet terribly divine—and she lets out a moan. Her cheeks redden immediately. Gaerwen fumbles for the switch on the door until it opens. They need to make this private before something living and sentient, _Holiday, _makes their private business public to _certain_ members of her crew.

Once inside, the door closes, and she guides him toward her bed. She can barely hear herself think over her loud pulse. Zenith sits down and she stands before him. With momentary hesitation, she starts peeling off the few layers of clothing he's dressed in. It's almost symbolic, she decides—and only a Jedi could find something as the removal of clothing as _symbolic_. Each piece of clothing is like each layer of protection over his body, mind, and heart. The storm's passed.

What innocence may have begot her exploration soon becomes curiosity which then develops into eagerness, and suddenly the game's changed—she doesn't care if they'll be cranky in the morning, because she's no longer against the idea of staying up all night with him. She wants to know him, and if she allows herself the vanity, she wants him to know her intimately.

Once his shirt is gone and his chest is bare, Zenith takes her hands and stops her, causing her to flush again.

_Is it really that obvious how desperately I want this?_

"Is this what you really want?" Gaerwen nods. "I'm older than you, I'm not a Jedi, I'm a vengeful man—" He trails off.

Wendy blinks and raises a brow. Vulnerability crosses his features, something she has never seen before. Her own feelings are echoed in his Force Signature: shared apprehension. He needs reassurance, he needs her to say the words he's fearful of admitting, even though the sentiment behind them is so clear.

"I don't care about any of that. None of those traits define who you are entirely. I don't care if you're older or that you're not a Jedi, and I know that though you're vengeful, you're merciful." She shrugs wistfully. "I've never done any of this. But I want this," she tentatively places a kiss on his cheek, a hair's length away from his lips. She swallows hard. "I need this. "

He hesitates, lets go of one of her hands, and brushes away loose strands of red hair. "Do you trust me?"

Wendy knows that he wouldn't ask the question unless he knew it were time to discuss it for he values trust as equally as his own life.. When Zenith says something, it's meaningful. He never says an unnecessary word.

"Yes, I do. I always have since Balmorra. If I can't trust you, I can't really trust anyone now, can I?" She presses another kiss to his lower jaw and barely moves away afterward. Her breath is warm despite the chilly air, and her eyes flash back and forth from his own and his mouth.

"The real question is do you trust _me_, Zenith?"

He buries himself in her hair and murmurs against her ear. "You're the only person who has earned my trust to its fullest."

It doesn't take another word; they jump together off of the cliff, and it's not so bad. There's no darkness in the Force, there's nothing lurking in the shadows except bad memories and worrisome dreams that fade away with light kisses.

Gaerwen pulls back and looks away in order to catch and collect her racing thoughts. She reminds herself of what she desires in order to make her happy and how it will require bravery on her behalf.

"I've heard some people talk about this before." She sits down on the bed beside him. "About knowing someone. My cousin's like my sister; she's told me stories, about what's done and how it should be."

"And how should it?"

"It's strange the first time. Sometimes it can hurt for the woman. But it's enjoyable if you take it easy and make sure you're both ready."

"It's your decision, Gaerwen."

"No, it's ours," she insists. Her hand reaches up and runs down his lekku. It twitches beneath her, and the physical response is clear. "Do you want this?"

He pulls away from her, with his hands on her shoulders, holding her steady. Zenith nods.

"_Say it_." Her voice is a bit firmer. She knows she needs to tease the words out if they're to be said.

"I want this—_you_." In his eyes she sees the added trait—he's also a passionate man.

"I don't know when we'll have another chance," she shrugs half-heartedly. "The stakes are higher. They'll only get higher as we get closer to the First Son." She closes her eyes and whispers, "So make love to me, Zenith."

"Logistically speaking, what about—"

"Always practical," she laughs, with an added rush of heat to her cheeks. "But rightfully so." Neither of them can risk those potential consequences. "Billie sent me a type of medication that can prevent pregnancy. I—" she stands and points towards her 'fresher. "Let me go find it."

She leaves and returns quickly enough, to see him removing his boots and insulated socks. She consumed the pill according to instruction's attached to the container. She's thankful for Billie's kindness and thoughtfulness and for practicality. Wendy crawls onto the bedside again and exudes her bravery by stealing his lips with her own.

Zenith's response is powerful, and she feels the pent up, perhaps at times confusing and conflicting, sense of longing release. He's experienced in kissing, they both are now, but beyond that, it's learning and exploring. They are quick and adaptive learners.

He falls back against the bed when they part to take a breath. She moves to lean over him, to look into his purple eyes as she trails her hand over his body. His chest is solid yet scarred, a consequence of combat. The scars on his lower side are from a grenade, from a battle long ago, she can tell, from the smallness and clustered character of them.

Gaerwen has her own. In order to share them, she stops her exploration and lifts her brown shirt over her shoulders to become as bare as him, save for her grey breast-binder. When Wendy goes to remove it, he swats her hands away and sits up.

"Let me," he requests in tone that makes her wonder of it is hardly a request and more an order.

At night her quarters are mostly dark, with only the one small emergency light. But the light—even with so little—it always manages to catch his eyes and it always creates rough shadows over his face. He undoes the binding leisurely, with his fingers brushing over what bare, pale skin lies on the edges of the cloth until it's gone and she's half-naked before a man for the first time.

As if instinctual, Wendy covers herself out of self-consciousness. He kisses her again, teasing the apprehension away from her, and her hands slip away from her body in order to explore his chest. Zenith smirks against her, the successful victor in this first of many contests, and she makes sure to turn his smirk into a groan by upping the stakes. She lets one hand slide over his abs to the brim of his belt buckle to deftly trail lower—a trick from one of Billie's more explicit letters.

There's no going back now, but the thought doesn't bother her.


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note**: _I'm sorry, but since I hate Belsavis so much, automatically all of my character's hate it equally if not more._

* * *

**Someone To Fight For**

Chapter Twelve

Her hands are stiff cold. She rubs them together and manages to create some heat through her gloves. She can't stop shivering, however, even with an extra layer of clothes on.

"I hate this planet already."

"You'll live."

"Well yeah, I might live long enough because this is like dying slowly." Wendy rubs her forearms and tries to stop her teeth from clattering to no avail. "One. Have you seen this climate? There's a lovely humid, rainy tropical area that we're bound to get lost in. Then a frozen wasteland that might as well be Hoth lite. So we're carrying two sets of climate gear. Two, have you seen how big the wildlife is on average? They make nexu and rakghouls look like akk pups. Three, it's a prison! That means take every potential enemy of the Republic, multiple it by the difficulty of the environment and add in the wildlife. I don't know about you, but we stick out like sore thumbs. Four, the history of this planet is pretty terrifying! You didn't see or hear what that Rakata AI told Iresso and I on Hoth! It literally told us to bow down and seek punishment for speaking out against our masters. So you've got the Rakata technology. Five, you have this so-called hidden Rakata army. So add the hatred of the Rakata and multiply it by thousands of years of being trapped in a stasis cell, awake, and you've got the Esh—"

"Okay, okay, I get it!" He folds his arms. "It's like I've discovered all of your weaknesses at one time."

Wendy rolls her eyes. "And to make it worse it seems like the lack of a functioning communication system is going to work against us. The maps are pretty shoddy—"

"We'll figure it out."

"I can't _wait_." Wendy resettles her backpack and groans. "Don't get me wrong, adventure's fun and all, but even I have limits when it comes to getting in touch with nature."

Zenith shrugs. "We'll adjust. Natures more predictable than these convicts are at least."

Wendy groans dramatically. "Does _anything_ get to you?" He shakes his head with a cocky smirk. "I guess I should feel lucky for just having you."

They march off into the wilds of Belsavis, away from what little civilization is present on the prison planet.


	13. Chapter 13

This shouldn't be difficult, and yet it's made her stop in her tracks. It's a matter of utmost importance, and she's stalling on her decision. The excitement and curiosity has simmered for now—she nearly melted into a pile of scholarly goo upon meeting Lhunu, the Rakata, and Hollow Voice, the Esh-Ka patriarch.

"It's just a code-name, Wendy. This is a lot of fuss just for one."

"You're one to talk, _Mr. Mysterious_."

Zenith rolls his eyes and shrugs.

The matter at hand? Coming up with a suitable name for the Esh-Ka to recognize her by, and the name's strength and potency mattered in their culture. It is like a first impression, a show of dominance and authority. They speak in metaphors, of waves, of patriarchs and powerful figures within specific castes. It's all too incredible of an opportunity to pass up.

"Oh there's too many possibilities! How am I going to pick one that suits me?" She clasps her hands behind her back and playfully nudges Zenith. "How did you come up with Zenith?"

"I don't know—first word to pop into my head when I joined the Resistance."

"Speaking of which, you never divulged the details of why you joined." Her lips curl into a smile. "It's a decent walk back to the teleporter, so we've got the time and you know how I love a good story."

"There isn't much to say."

"Start at the beginning, and when you get to the end, stop." She giggles.

He sighs and shrugs. "I… I was an Imperial slave."

Gaerwen immediately sobers and stops walking in order to take his hand. "Oh, Zenith, I'm…I'm so sorry, I had no idea, you don't have to—"

They continue walking, but with their fingers intertwined. Their boots crunch against the snow, but she can still hear his quiet words.

"Haven't told anyone. Most assume I'm from Balmorra." He shrugs. "It's the only home I've ever known." Wendy nods. "Was born into slavery. My parents worked at the construction site for the Emperor's statue. Mother died during childbirth, or so I'm told." He pauses and she squeezes his hand. "I worked there until I was brought to Sobrik by a Darth. Did hard labor in the mines until I escaped and joined the Resistance."

"How old were you?"

"Don't remember, maybe eighteen, nineteen. Took all that anger and turned it on Balmorra's oppressors."

She stops him again, releases his hand, and she turns his body somewhat so that she can look at his neck. Her gloved fingers touch the scarred flesh there, and now she understands what she felt last night: he once wore a shock collar. She leans forward, pushes one of his lekku aside, and gently kisses the area. He stiffens momentarily, and then turns around. He pulls her into his arms, holding onto her tightly, breathing into her hair.

She's speechless, otherwise. She knows he doesn't want pity, and he's moved on and become something so much more than just an Imperial slave—he's a _hero_ now, and that's all that matters. He took his anger, his hatred—all of his emotions—and devoted them to freeing Balmorra for Imperial reign, to never allow another child to be born into chains under his watchful eyes.

"Thank you for telling me, Zenith," she whispers into his ear. "You know I'm here for you." She drops it at that.

He pulls away slightly and stares down at her, looking into her blue eyes. His expression is so calm and collected for someone explaining his past.

"I don't have a name. If I ever did, it wasn't written down, I don't remember it. I had a number as a slave, but I've forgotten it as well."

Wendy shakes her head. "Of course you have a name. I call you Zenith, don't I?"

She pulls him along again, and they're almost at the transport station. She looks up at the clearing sky and sees a few twinkling stars in the night sky. "'The highest point reached in the heavens by a celestial body.'"

Their boots no longer clank against the stone ground inside of the ancient transport station. They know it's safe to use, they've traveled via these ley lines before, and have yet to experience any difficulties.  
Gaerwen taps in the coordinates, and the machine begins to turn on, with yellow electricity sparking off of the spinning dial.

"After you, Gaerwen."

She laughs, with wide, amused eyes.

"No. Call me _Dusk Flower_."


	14. Chapter 14

It's like the barriers have crumbled away. It's freedom and liberation and she's never seen him like this before. For once she experiences something more than a storm—it's like a sunny, clear sky over a green pasture. She's never seen such variety in expressions from Zenith before, amusement, sarcasm, happiness, and even annoyance that is more mirthful than bitter. In turn, she's happy.

_Maybe this dumb planet isn't so bad._

"Oh come on! You don't need to have a big macho name in order to inspire authority! Some of the best names are ironic, and it seems that irony is something that you don't understand, _Mr. Snuggly Sniper._"

"Will you stop calling me that? All I need is for Tharan or Iresso to hear you saying that, I'll never live it down—"

"Oh, say what?" She grins from ear to ear. "_Snuggly Sniper?_ It's deliciously ironic!"

"Wendy! I was asleep!"

"Ah, but still _conscious!_" She sticks her tongue out and runs ahead of him, out of his grasp. In between laughs, she says, "It's not my fault you're the sort to enjoy snuggling after—"

Finally Zenith catches her at the entrance to their ship. He silences her teasing with a well timed kiss, and she in turn grins, wraps her arms around him, clutching onto his coat, and lets him press her against the ship's door. The hands on her hips tilt her body forward, meeting his own, and she hopes that the rest of the crew is still enjoying the few shops on the orbital station. She's never felt so delightfully warm and excited, and with a giddy giggle, she whispers his new nickname to elicit a grunt. They fumble with the code to open the door, and it takes several moments for their jittery fingers to press the right buttons. At some point he lifts her off the ground and lays open kisses on her neck.

Eventually, Wendy tells him to stop in between giggles so that one of them can punch in the code properly—they only get so many tries after all.

Finally, the door opens, and they hurriedly grab their fallen gear with the intention of stopping at her bedroom before anyone sees them. They've nearly made it, and it's good timing, because her clothes are suddenly two sizes too small, and she's never seen such a wicked look in his eyes.

"Wendy?"

Wendy turns her head, immediately drops Zenith's hand, and looks over her shoulder to see a very distressed Nadia who's on the brink of tears. Her blissful grin morphs into a stunned expression that is a cross between embarrassment and mortification, then a frown, and she abandons her gear and goes to Nadia's side.

"Nadia, stars, what's happened?" She glances over her shoulder and mouths 'sorry' to Zenith, who too has dropped the humor and nods as he gathers up their gear to take it to the cargo hold."

"It's… It's father," Nadia is trying so hard to hold herself together. "We tried to contact you, but the com channels were sabotaged on planet."

Gaerwen pulls Nadia into the common area, sits her down at the couches and kneels before her. The other diplomats are there, chattering amongst themselves and she overhears the words 'Esh-Ka' and 'problematic'—she knows Hollow Voice arrived earlier to her ship.

"Father's been kidnapped, he was taken when he went to the orbital station, we don't know how to find him!"

"Nadia, I promise we will find him." She looks away momentarily. "Holiday! Can you and Tharan do anything? Contact the orbital station…"

—-

Her eyes open to blurriness—her vision is distorted by the fluidity of being underwater. Her auburn hair floats around her like a halo, brightly glimmering red with the sun's rays. She cranes her neck and tries to swim upwards, but a force holds her downwards, a force that continues to push her further down, down to the darkest reaches of the water.

_"…You, who fights with monsters should look to it that you yourself do not become a monster."_

She struggles against her invisible oppressor and tormentor, arms flailing about in the water, legs kicking desperately, eyes widening and bulging as her mouth opens futilely to catch air or perhaps scream into nothingness. Water fills her lungs, sharp and poisonous, and ultimately damning.

There's nothing she can do, helpless to the pulling and pushing of invisible hands and weights forcing her downwards.

Her eyes move upwards, but the light of the surface is too far out of reach, with instead darkness swallowing her whole like mighty jaws clamping down upon squirming prey—the final blow. Her eyes close and she continues falling into the abyss.

_"…And when you gaze long into an abyss…the abyss also gazes into you."_

—

One never sees themselves die in dreams, and some philosophers have boldly stated that when one does see oneself die in the plane of dreams, then one truly dies in reality. It's a ridiculous notion, clear pseudoscience, because she wakes with a violent jolt—fully alive—as if ripped a part from one consciousness and thrown unceremoniously into another. It is a nightmare—no longer is she drowning.

It takes all of her strength to remember to breathe as heavy gulps of air fill her lungs—as if she'll never have a chance to catch her breath again. She runs a hand through her hair, glances to her left and sees Zenith sleeping peacefully on his side, facing her. Once her pulse has fallen to a consistent beat, she slides out of her side of the bed as quietly as possible so as not to disturb him. She heads to the 'fresher in order to splash cold water on her face. The overhead light flickers, barely alive itself, and somewhere she makes a note of getting this light fixed as well. She grips the sides of the sink to stop herself from shaking and hangs her head, letting the water slide down her face, over the slope of her jaw, and down her neck. Gaerwen looks up only in order to look at herself in the mirror. There are dark circles under her blood-shot eyes. She frowns to herself and looks away.

The nightmares are becoming more problematic, more terrifying, and more abstract and confusing in nature. The first was vivid, and not obscure: it was clear, straight-forward torture. She can still recollect the sensations and words spoken to her. This most recent one, however, was less vivid, but no less exhaustive in instilling fear. The voice that spoke to her was not Master Syo's, to which she is half-thankful. She wonders if it once again is the work of the Emperor—revenge for killing two of his sons in the pursuit of gaining the Esh-Ka and her attempt at rescuing Nadia's father.

Gaerwen closes her eyes for only a moment. Hands touch her shoulders, and, in a sudden wave of panic, she turns and grabs the wrists of Zenith, who is standing behind her. Her eyes widen and she immediately drops them.

"Sorry—I was just—"

"It's okay," he quietly states. He has seen that expression on her face before. "You look terrible."

She laughs bitterly. "I _feel_ terrible." She sighs and frowns. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"Don't worry about that." He puts an arm around her shoulder and guides her back to the bed.

They each lie down, pull the sheets over themselves, and she rests her head against Zenith's chest. She listens to his breathing and to his heartbeat, and feels his lungs expand and compress. His fingers trail through her hair, attempting to soothe away whatever unsettling fear still haunting her. Gaerwen touches his hand, which rests on his stomach, and lazily draws small circles on the back of it.

Eventually, she falls back asleep and dreams of pure, raw nothingness.


	15. Chapter 15

At the suggestion of Tai Cordan and Master Syo, they set a course for Voss, with the intention of beating the odds and earning the favor of the elusive Voss mystics. It's a welcomed distraction from grief and mourning.

So much has changed in such a short period of time. The absence of Tobias Grell is felt by everyone, even Alauni, the more bitter and cynical of her diplomatic cargo. Tobias Grell, a strong, caring father and a proud man amongst his fellow Sarkhai. The most important change in Gaerwen's life is the professed wish of Tobias Grell for his only daughter to become the padawan of the Barsen'thor—an honor and responsibility that Gaerwen hoists onto her shoulders as well as she can in spite of it all.

Once again she invites for Nadia to take up the blade and come with them on their excursion to Voss-Ka.

"You'll be able to observe and participate," she suggests.

Nadia is pleased and excited for the opportunity. As they make their way to their next destination, they have several small training and scholarly sessions. Nadia, like any young, bright student, is more eager for the hands on activity rather than the foundation.

"A Jedi learns from the bottom up. It's important to know the teachings of past elders, to know the history of our order, so as to be able to understand the decisions of the present."

Despite initial grumblings, Nadia complies and finds herself more enthusiastic during each progressive lesson. She has several questions about the Jedi Code, about the mechanics of the Force, and how spiritual enlightenment is obtained.

"Nirvana through the Force takes several years; I certainly have not reached it yet, my own Master was approaching it. It comes to everyone at different points in their life. It involves understanding one's emotions and learning to control them for clarity's sake."

Nadia listens intently, seated across from her on her master's ornate meditation rug.

"For the pursuit of the light, one must free oneself from ill will, from obsessive desires, from cruelty. One must abstain from lying, harsh language, and gossip, as they are paths to internal and external suffering. One must act honestly, avoid stealing, and all violence if possible. If one must use violence it must be as a final resort, for the protection of others, thus requiring selflessness in the face of oncoming death. A Jedi faces many personal sacrifices of varying degrees. It requires neutrality, yet firmness. A Jedi always serves others, a Jedi is a guardian of the defenseless, and a Jedi is not ambitious. Those who rise to the positions on the Council are appointed by current elders—there is no hierarchy, and it serves the people of the Republic first and foremost.

"It sounds like I'm reading a grocery list of requirements, but this behavior is something that comes from years of study and experience with others. It's a series of lessons."

"How do you interpret portions of the code? What about the importance of knowledge, of emotions?"

"Knowledge can either be scholarly or from experience. If you are faced with saving an individual or saving written, recorded information, a Jedi should save the individual. Knowledge is stored in multiple ways, known by multiple people. It can be rebuilt. A life cannot be rebuilt once lost. A life, a being who might have done this or that for all. A life is more important, always.

"Don't criticize yourself for expressing emotions such as fear or anger or disappointment. I believe that they should be tempered according to the situation, however." Nadia looks down and frowns. "What happened with the Child of the Emperor was…" she tries to pick her words carefully.

"Well it's expected, and it's never easy losing anyone, especially someone close. Sadness and grief are important parts of the healing process, but I will not condone revenge."

Nadia nods and uncrosses her legs in order to bring them to her chest. It's a gesture of vulnerability, of how the wound is still fresh and prominent. Wendy herself can fathom the pain, and she knows that one never gets over losing a family member or figure. No amount of meditation can cure an ailed heart.

"I know father wouldn't have wanted me to kill in his name, I was just so…so—"

"I know. He's with the Force now. He is the sun upon your face, the wind through your hair, the rain against your cheeks. The Force is vitalistic in nature, and all encompassing. Every living and nonliving being has a connection with it. It is why a Jedi can move objects, use mind tricks, create force fields, heal wounds."

During another of the training sessions, the other members of her crew, or at least those interested, come down with Nadia and Gaerwen to the training hall, which is on the lower levels, in order to watch the lesson. Qyzen sits upon a crate beside Zenith, who is callibrating his rifle again, and Lt. Iresso, and Tharan lean against one of the metal walls.

"You already have a significant connection to the Force, but it's important to learn how to control it for coordinated, planned usage."  
Gaerwen shows Nadia the physical technique and posture of one's body, of stances and positioning without the use of a lightsaber. Most positions look like stretches.

"You won't always have a saber. It could be knocked out of your hand, tossed aside, or worse, become stolen. You have to know how to manipulate your body in order to defend yourself and provide offense maneuvering via the Force. You use your limps as mediums for channeling it's power and momentum. You can use kicks, pushes, pulls, punches, slams—"

"So basically hand to hand combat, Nadia." Zenith shortens.

Wendy glances over her shoulder and leers. "It's a little more than that."

"Hardly."

"You and Zenith should show an example for her. A skirmish?" Iresso suggests.

"An excellent idea, Felix." Tharan says while scratching his honey colored beard.

Zenith turns his head, and nonchalantly shrugs. "Up to her."

"Why not, it's a good idea."

Zenith hops off the crate, abandoning the rifle for another time, and starts to stretch.

"I'll sweeten the deal by placing my credits on our good sniper friend."

"I don't know Tharan," Iresso shrugs. "Wendy's pretty quick."

"She's more adept with the Force at a long distance than physical skirmishes. She rarely lets anyone get close enough for a saber or a punch."

"Hm. My credits are still on her."

_"Herald will win, though each have many Jagganath points."_

"My Tharan knows how to gamble," Holiday quips as she drapes her holo-projection over Tharan. "He's called more Huttball games than most others than Giradda the Hutt."

"I do have a way with placing my bets wisely."

Iresso laughs and folds his arms across his chest. "You want to double your bet then, huh?"

"I most certainly will."

"Well my credits are on a tie," Nadia says with a small smile as she sits down against the wall. "They'll cancel each other out."

_"Agree with soft girl, each are worthy of winning."_

"Hey, hey, we're doing this for Nadia," Gaerwen folds her arms and shakes her head at Tharan and Iresso. "This is purely for educational purposes."

"And this is simply good business, my good Jedi."

—

It's a close, even match, and as it continues on, it appears more and more likely to turn into a tie. Gaerwen throws a punch which Zenith deflects, taking her body and lifting her upward and over his shoulder. Quickly she recovers by rolling and getting onto her feet again in order to hit his other side. As per a prior agreement, she accepted the terms of being unable to use the Force to help her, which leveled the playing field. Zenith is agile, and most of his technique involves dodges and defensive tactics in order to avoid her blows. Wendy, however, is on the offensive, and lithely uses her legs in order to attempt to swipe his feet from under him. Most of the attempts by both parties are blocked and deflected, and as the skirmish drags on, it becomes clear that the winner will be the one who lasts longer than the other, which in itself is a test of each's endurance. Their breaths come raggedly, short and heavy, and finally, it ends with Gaerwen slipping up and losing her balance, allowing him the slight edge he needs in order to successfully almost lay a final blow to her, without actually laying it.

"And I told you so!" Tharan gleefully cheers. "Never bet against Tharan Cedrax."

"Fine, fine, you win." Iresso concedes as he hands over his credit chit.  
Nadia turns hers over as well, and Holiday begins cooing and fawning over her winner. Gaerwen and Zenith fall back against the cooler mats on the ground, heavily panting. She closes her eyes and tries to regain control over her pulse by controlling her breathing. Zenith sits up, and extends a hand that she takes with a laugh.

"Your form is excellent, Zenith."

He rolls his eyes and scoffs. "Don't, there were several noticeable flaws."

"Well whatever you're doing keep doing it."

Iresso comes over and offers a hand for her, and she takes it. She hunches over, still catching her breath, and offers her thanks.

"You almost had him, Wendy."

"He's got some endurance, I'd say. I was out one way or another, but he could have gone on, easy, for longer." She nudges Zenith, who comes to stand by her. "You'll have to tell us your secret."

"Wouldn't be much of a secret," he smirks and returns to his rifle.

—

"I wasn't built for that kind of combat and I am completely content with that."

"I respect the Force because I know what it can do."

"I wish more soldiers knew that. It really would help with the morale if they had any confidence in their abilities."

"You're telling me."

With that, Zenith and Gaerwen share a smile and then part ways, each heading towards their respect quarters in order to get cleaned up and ready for their arrival to the mysterious planet of Voss.


	16. Chapter 16

**Author's Note**:_ In my wibbly, wobbly, timey-wimey legacy, the agent storyline has already occurred, and thus Bas-Ton's tea house is now Phi-Ton's tea house._

* * *

"…And so I'll have my secretary arrange two rooms for you and your compatriots at Phi-Ton's tea house."

Wendy clasps her hands and glances at Zenith and Nadia. "Oh how wonderful! It will be nice to have a place to keep our things, and perhaps have a place to lay our heads."

Zenith nods knowingly—carrying their supplies and making camp every evening on Belsavis had not been the most enjoyable task.

"I wouldn't dawdle, Gaden-Ko needs your aide—"

"Of course, thank you Ms. Farash. It will be a pleasure to work with you."

The ambassador's lips curl into a smirk. "No, really, the pleasure is _mine_ Master Jedi."

* * *

After dealing with the business regarding Gaden-Ko's rescue and the burial of his family, Zenith, Wendy, and Nadia return to the tea house with they understanding they would leave at first light to protect Gaden-Ko on his pilgrimage to the Shrine of Healing. Both women are eager to spend the early evening enjoying a mug of the best tea that Voss has to offer. They get cleaned up before taking a seat inside of the small dining area of Phi-Ton's establishment.

"Well, I would like something fruity yet strong." Wendy tells Phi-Ton, the owner, upon his request for her order. "Is there anything like that?"

"Yes, we have a strong tea made from dry berries found in the wilds here."

"Delightful, I'll have that," she smiles and thanks the owner again. Once he has left, she turns to Nadia and raises a brow.

"You really prefer sweet flavored teas?"

"Of course, it's a delicacy on Sarkhai. We often use dry candied fruits."

"I'll have to try some when you give me a tour of your home."

Nadia looks up and blinks, as if she's stunned. Wendy frowns and apologizes half-heartedly with a small smile.

"I don't mean to invite myself."

"Oh no, it's not that at all. I just hadn't thought you would—"

"Why wouldn't I? I love going to new places, seeing new people, trying new things. Familiarity can become dull after awhile."

Now Nadia smiles and it's bright enough to light her blue eyes.  
"I'll show you that monument. The historical one."

"Oh I would very much like that!"

Their teas arrive a few moments later, already placed inside two respective ceramic teapots, steeping. Zenith approaches their table, after cleaning himself up. He sits down in between Nadia and Wendy.

Wendy offers him the extra teacup she requested earlier.

"I thought you might like to try it."

"More of a caf person."

"Caf's for keeping you up at unholy hours. Tea is for relaxing, which is what you need to do." She pours her tea into their two cup, then holds her own purple colored teacup in her hands. "Tea is good for your health. Rejuvenates the digestive system and it's great for the spirit."

"Caf does that as well." He raises a hand, as if to stop her from interrupting. "And yes, there has been research done to prove that fact."

Wendy rolls her eyes and nudges his cup closer to him. He sits with his arms folded across his fresh white shirt.

"People have revolutions over a cup of caf. People have scholarly debates over tea." Nadia quips.

"Caf is bitter. Just how a beverage should be."

Wendy snorts and takes a sip of her tea. "You mean you like your caf as bitter as yourself." She winks and licks her lips.

He makes a face, perhaps one that's meant to be admonishing. Instead it only makes her giggle.

"Go on Zenith," Nadia encourages innocently enough over the brim of her cup. "Just try it. You might just like it. Maybe it will make you less sour."

Off-handedly, Nadia scratches her chin, as if in deep thought, despite her widening grin. "In fact, I've heard it's a great aphrodisiac!"

Wendy laughs heartily at that, and Zenith rolls his eyes and leans back in his chair.

It's clear he's outnumbered, and he knows that they won't stop the bad jokes until he tries it. With a sigh, he settles his chair back onto all fours, snatches the cup ,and takes a daring sip of Wendy's fruity tea. To his own surprise, he does enjoy the taste—though he takes a long, generous gulp, he tries to play it down afterwards because he is unwilling to have them completely win this small challenge.

"It's…alright," he half-lies with his best sabaac face. "Nothing fancy."

Both of them appear to buy it and in turn are somewhat disappointed.

"Well we won't force you to have anymore if you truly dislike it." Wendy says as she takes the half-empty cup away from Zenith, who almost reaches out to stop her but instead corrects the slight twitch in his hand by scratching his neck.

He cannot help but smirk—she is a clever jedi, as always. Zenith resists the urge to give in and admit he enjoyed it. It's one of their harmless games—seeing who can resist subtle teasing and playfulness the longest. They're currently tied, if he recalls correctly, and he can't lose this round.

Later, when they have eaten dinner, finished their teas, and decided to retire for the evening, Wendy pulls Zenith aside in the hallway and tells him in a hushed voice,

"Admit it. You liked that tea."

"It wasn't terrible." He shrugs nonchalantly.

She smirks and shakes her head. "You aren't winning this round Zenith."

"The evening isn't over yet."

"My thoughts exactly. I requested another pot of tea from Phi-Ton, as well as some desserts. I'll wait 'till Nadia's settled and I'll get your true opinion out of you one way or another."

He raises a brow and chuckles."Is that a _threat?_"

"It's definitely a challenge." She licks her lips and lightly pinches his forearm. "I know you're the one who steals Tharan's desserts out of the mess hall."

"You spying on me?"

She feigns shock. "Really? And here I thought you were on top of things. Of course I know the ins and outs of _my_ ship, and I know every single individual's favorite snack, dessert, and flavor of ice-cream, and _you_ Zenith, you can't resist chocolate. And given how you reacted to the tea, I could surmise that you enjoy fruit dipped in chocolate."

As they approach his room, Wendy folds her arms and winks. "And you're going to have to watch me enjoy those sweets until you admit the truth out in the open."

Zenith checks to make sure that Nadia is inside of her and Gaerwen's room, and then pulls her close. "Sure you aren't skilled in Imperial torture?"

"I don't know; we'll see how long it takes to make you squeal."

* * *

"I had never had desserts prior to meeting you."

Wendy nearly chokes on her tea. "You're _kidding_ me."

"Never had the opportunity."

At that, her surprise fades into remorse. He gives her a look, one that immediately reminds her that he isn't interested in pity, especially in regard to something as trivial as not having chocolate until the age of thirty-six.

"Only had standard military rations and instant caf. Didn't taste good but it got you through the day."

"Of course, rations are high caloric and the instant caf is a stimulant. It makes sense."

"Darth Lachris had a gluttonous streak, however. Heard she imported specialty meats, wines, and fruit. Practically ate like the queen she thought she was."

She nods and takes another sip of the dark purple liquid that smells like berries and lemongrass. She sighs contentedly, closes her eyes, and shrugs. When she reopens her eyes, she sees that there is a smudge of chocolate on his lower lip. With a giggle, she reaches out and brushes it away with her cloth napkin.

"I think the verdict's clear, Zenith."

"Yeah," he chuckles briefly and lays back against the soft sheets. He lazily shrugs. "Maybe it is. You win this round, Wendy."


	17. Chapter 17

**Author's Note**: _Spoilers for the Jedi Knight storyline, in particular the ends of Act I & II._

* * *

**Someone To Fight For**

Chapter Seventeen

It doesn't take a scientist to predict the results of what will happen as a result of Sophia Farash's death. Gaerwen has killed, in self-defense of herself and others, three of the Emperor's children. The Voss executed the fourth. Three of the deaths resulted in vivid, waking nightmares, and she expects the fallen ambassador's death will provoke the same response.

The knowledge that it will happen is enough to frighten and shake her sense of security. In spite of all the physical demons and monsters of the galaxy, she fears the terror awaiting her upon falling asleep. In wakefulness, she is accompanied by someone else and the fear is diffused and can be combated; in her dreams, Gaerwen stands alone, sometimes unable to defend herself against the dream's manipulations. A younger, perhaps more child-like version of herself is foolish enough to believe that if she stays up all night, every night for the rest of her life that there is a chance she will be spared the imminent torture.

On the first evening after their departure from Voss, she sits in the common area reading her datapad mindlessly with a cup of strong caf, determined to not fall asleep. She lost track of the exact time, but she heard most of her crew shuffle off to sleep, and so she figures it's late.

The task at hand is a formidable one, as the document she reads bores her to tears, and her eyes are feeling heavy. To her own unfortunate end, none of the files on her datapad are fiction, and scholarly work only exacerbates the weariness. Despite every anxious sip of caf and physically straining her eyes to force them open, she realizes that the caf isn't helping. Her body is still physically exhausted from healing Gaden-Ko and it in turn demands rest. Every muscle in her body aches, and it's futile ultimately, because her eyes fall shut, and she falls asleep curled up on the couch against her will.

* * *

Gaerwen stands inside of a long, thin corridor, with darkness on all sides besides the path before her where there is a faint glimmer of light. She hears something far off, but it is too quiet to properly address. As she walks towards the light and the noise, guided by a gentle nudge against her back, the light grows brighter and the noise louder until she enters a large open area properly lit.

Across the room at the top of a set of stairs, she sees what appears to be a shimmering entryway, which is the source of the electric light and crackling and screeching white noise. Her senses overload and her head throbs. She closes her eyes and reaches up to clap her hands over her ears, but the noise still penetrates through, more deafening than before. The force pushes her forward, up the stairs, and despite hesitation and apprehension, she has no choice but to enter through the portal or instead face the barrage of visual and auditory sensations.

The physics of her dream world defy the ones of reality, as she experiences the pulling, shrinking, and twisting of matter as she is unpleasantly pummeled through this wormhole into the unknown. Though it feels like ages, it ends with a blink of her eyes. This new plane of existence is more familiar, and it looks like the inside of a starship's bridge. In the nearby distance, Gaerwen hears echoing, muffled voices. Once again, something draws her towards it, and as she wanders the halls of the starship, the familiarity becomes eerie and suffocating: she has been here before. Her heart pounds loudly in her ears, her arms fold across her chest as if she has chills, and her approach is cautious.

The noises become voices, voices she recognizes, voices that mean everything to her and suddenly her pace is no longer cautious and her eyes widen. Suddenly she feels like a young girl again.

_It's not a nightmare, it's not a nightmare, thank the stars, it's not a nightmare!_

Gaerwen runs through the hallways because the relief and happiness is enough to bring tears to her eyes. She wants nothing more than to run into her parents and announce her presence-to see her mother, to share her experiences, to tell her that she's become a Jedi Master, to tell her about Nadia, Zenith, Lt. Iresso, Master Yuon and Syo Bakarn, and even _Tharan Cedrax and Holiday_, to tell her that Force ghosts really do leave freckles, and to see her mother's pride-until she reaches her destination and her feet abruptly halt inside of the common area of her parents' starship.

Three people stand beside an inactive holo-terminal: younger versions of her mother and father, Rina Quixot, her god-mother, and a man she presumes is Doc, Rina's husband, from his appearance. Teeseven, her father's loyal astromech, is beside them. Gaerwen steps further into the room, but they do not see or hear her, even when she calls out tentatively-she is a ghost in this world. As she observes the situation, it becomes clear that the four are arguing about something particularly distressing.

"I can feel him," her mother, Kira Carsen, states as she looks away from her father, Ibonar Aurell, who places a hand on her shoulder.

"Can you sense if he knows we're here?" Rina asks with a frown.

"I'm not sure. He'd be laughing, if he still knew how."

"Who's laughing?" Doc raises a brow. "I don't hear anything."

Rina sighs and shakes her head while Kira chuckles bitterly.

"It's a Jedi thing, Doc," Rina explains. "There's no time to explain it all now."

"He's not afraid, for why would the strongest, most powerful force in the galaxy feel fear?" Gaerwen wonders if its hopelessness she hears in her mother's voice. "He's just quiet. Still. All he feels is...cold rage."

"Anger is born from fear. His time is up." The hand on Kira's shoulder reaches up and rustles her red hair. Her father smiles half-heartedly. "We'll be alright."

Despite this reassurance, Kira does not lighten up, even for a moment.

"We shouldn't have come here. This is a trap. I have a bad feeling about this."

"Kira, please, it's not best to think like that." Rina says quietly. "Even if this a trap, we need to remain steadfast and strong. That's what he wants, to get inside of our heads and intimidate us. We can't let that happen."

"I...I don't know if I can do this Iven," Kira's voice shakes and Gaerwen recalls never seeing her mother this distressed before. "You should let me stay aboard the ship. This will end badly if I go with you, he'll get inside of my head, he'll find a way around all the work I've done, and I won't let this mission fail because I'm a Child-"

Ibonar interrupts Kira by placing both of his hands on her shoulders, steadying her.

"_No_," he corrects. "You aren't one of his, not any longer. You've defeated him once and you will _never_ succumb again, no matter what he tries to do, because you are the master of yourself. He has no power over us if we stick together, if we stand strong. Face your fear, Kira. Overcome it. He doesn't understand that, he can't fight against bravery. Six of the strongest Jedi against one. We have the upper hand. He doesn't know we're here. He doesn't know what we're capable of if we stand _together_."

Kira's brows narrow, her hands tighten into fists, and she nods. "You're right, I won't let it happen, not here, not ever again."

".../Time to act +now..."

Gaerwen does not have enough time to attempt to comprehend the scene before her, because the voices begin to fade as the room around her begins to blur and crumble all around her. Her chance of sharing that moment with her deceased mother is slipping away. Gaerwen reaches out, tries to take her mother's hand, but it falls out of reach, and immediately after she's falling again through the wormhole, falling into a dark abyss with no sound.

* * *

When the planes of light, sound, and space realign, Gaerwen stands once again at the bridge of a starship, and she recognizes it as Imperial from its design: coarse, dark, metallic, and hallow of warmth. She sees her mother and father once again as their younger selves, but no Rina or Doc or Teeseven. Instead, their lightsabers are drawn and lit: Ibonar's two blades are orange and green while Kira's double-bladed saber is also blue. Their opponent is an old, haggard looking Sith dressed in red and black robes. His face is wrinkled and distorted by cybernetics and bulging purple veins, his hair is white yet dirty, and the smirk on his face is disorienting.

"You will not steal my victory, Ibonar Aurell." The Sith's voice says her father's name bitterly, as sharp as a knife. "I have sacrificed too much for this. I will avenge my son, the son whom you slaughtered on Coruscant."

Now Gaerwen knows who this Sith is: Darth Angral. She heard stories of her parents strike against him and plenty of other Imperials in the pursuit of reclaiming dozens of Republic war devices and schematics stolen by the man's son. She knows that whatever this man perceived as slaughter truly was self-defense and a necessary evil, something she herself understands all too well.

"I told you on Coruscant that I would seek my vengeance on you and all the Jedi of your Order. It is time you paid for your crimes."

Gaerwen knows how this battle ends: with Darth Angral's death and the saving of Tython.

"_My_ crimes? _Sacrifice?_" Her father retorts. "Coming from the man who committed genocide upon the innocent citizens Uphrades?"

Angral scoffs. "Merely a test. A lure to bring you here. I foresaw this confrontation. I welcome it." A cruel grin spreads across the man's pasty face. "Today, foolish Jedi, I forge a new era for the Sith. One where the Jedi are finally extinct. Your kind are nothing but vermin, a pest upon the galaxy, and like all rodents, you will be exterminated."

Yet as Darth Angral gave his speech, Gaerwen sees something wrong unfold. Something that was not addressed within the datacrons of history in the Jedi archives.

Kira Carsen steps forward after sheathing her lightsaber, her head shaking, her eyes widening, her hands convulsing, and the grin on Angral's face widens sickeningly until it unfurls into a boisterous cackle that hurts Gaerwen's ears. Ibonar stands in shock, speechless, as Kira ascends the steps and comes to stand at Angral's side. The convulsions stop, and her mother's body grows still and her expression blank. Red fumes emerge around her mother's form, lightning crackles at her fingertips, and her eye color changes from blue to blood red.

"Finish this Angral, I command it."

Gaerwen's heart stops. She _knows_ that voice! She knows its tone, its inflection, its dark, twisted owner, because it too has echoed in her vivid dreams and from monstrous apparitions and avatars controlled by _him_, the Emperor. She feels sick, lightheaded, and dizzy.

"With pleasure," another chilling laugh, "my Master."

She refuses to look at it, refuses to acknowledge the harsh, impossible truth that is standing before her. Her head tilts upward only because she hears a crashing sound and a low whimper. Her mother fell to the floor, sitting upright on her knees.

"What... what was that?" Kira's voice quakes. She can hardly speak coherently. "I felt the Emperor-"

"You are his Child. His eyes. His ears... his willing weapon to command." Darth Angral clasps his hands behind his back. "Come, Child. Fight by my side. It's where you belong."

"Fight the Emperor's control. Remember who you are!"

"We have to end this fast, I can feel him in my thoughts-"

"If you will not serve, you will die."

Gaerwen then watches as the battle unfolds, and history remains true-her mother and father succeed in crippling and disarming Darth Angral.

However, as Ibonar approaches the Sith in order to deal the final blow, the red fumes return, more vibrant than before. Kira screams, clutches her head, and once again convulses as the Emperor returns more powerful and angrier. One of her hands is raised, and with a flick of her wrist, Ibonar is pushed away from Angral with the Force. He flies through the air and slams into one of the computer terminals on the bridge. She rushes forward, lightning flinging from her fingertips towards her father.

Gaerwen reaches frantically for her hip but finds no lightsaber, tries to scream for this madness to cease, but is prevented by an invisible hand covering her mouth and a stronger force prevents her from squirming. In horror she watches the purple and black lightning strike her father, watches him seize in pain as volts of electricity run through his body. Gaerwen is sure her father will die, that history is about to be rewritten, and no matter how hard she tries, she can't escape the monstrous presence forcing her to remain frozen.

To her temporary relief, Kira resists with a shrilly cry and lightning stops coming from her fingertips. Ibonar takes the chance and staggers upright, walks towards her to the best of his ability, steps over Darth Angral's now dead form, but does not grab either of his tossed aside sabers resting on the ground. Gaerwen realizes he's not going to try to defend himself. With each step he takes, he winces and lets out a grunt of pain.

"Kira," he rasps in a pleading tone, "I know you are in there."

Gaerwen sees Darth Angral's abandoned saber rattle and fly through the air into Kira's hand. It ignites with an impressive twist of her wrist, and it's as red as the potent fumes around her body.

"You foolishly stand against me unarmed?" The Emperor's voice says through her mother. "Do you wish to die?"

Ibonar's footing slips and he staggers forward. He immediately clutches his chest.

"I...I won't," he coughs and tilts his head to look at Kira. "I can't fight you, Kira."

"She is gone. This Child must learn her place." Kira walks slowly towards Ibonar, twirling her blade as if it is a toy. "You too will succumb."

"Release her! Fight with me in person. Let her go!"

"Unnecessary. Irrelevant." She stands before him, kicks him backwards so that he falls flatly onto his back. Her foot presses into Ibonar's chest and he moans in pain. "I see futures in you. Futures I will not allow. Your life ends here."

Kira raises the blade, poising it to strike the killing blow into his heart. As it fall, Gaerwen struggles against her invisible oppressor, but it's useless-her eyes widen, and she knows this is it, this is really happening, he's going to die.

"Fight him Kira!"

This is really it, she's going to watch it right before her eyes, her father dying at her mother's hands, whether willingly or unwillingly, and then finally, the invisible force holding her back releases her and she's running, running to save her father's life-

Gaerwen wakes up in a cold sweat, once again jolted from the unreal back into the solid present where her mother is dead, her father is alive, and she is thousands of parsecs away from the physical form of the Emperor. It doesn't matter, regardless-she can hear his voice inside of her head, taunting her, and feel his presence inside of the presumed sanctity of her starship.

Before she can manage a coherent thought, her body starts to feel warm, then hot, then scathing, and it feels like thousands of tiny bugs are crawling on her. When she looks down at her arms and legs, she sees them: her entire body is covered in black, squirming bugs of various shapes, sizes, and leg amounts.

The blood curdling series of screams accompany her frantic gesturing to swipe them off her body, to get them off and away as soon as possible. She feels them biting her, their attempt at fighting back, and she stands, flailing her arms in a maddening panic. She closes her eyes, scratches at her skin. They're in her hair, in her clothes, crawling, squirming-

"Gaerwen!" She feels Zenith's hands on her shoulders, but it's a futile attempt at steadying her.

Her eyes open and she sees him with his brows narrowed, his own purple eyes worried and concerned-but he's also covered in them, covered from head to toe in the same monstrous parasites.

"Get away from me!" She shrieks as she shoves him away with the help of the Force. Zenith flies through the air and slams into one of the ship's walls with a thud. Her eyes are wide eyes with panic and a foreign madness. "You're covered in them too!"

As more people enter the common area, she sees that everyone is covered in them as well.

"Stay back," she commands with her hands poised, prepared to use the Force to defend herself. "Don't come near me. You're all covered in them."

"Master? please-" Nadia says as she takes a hesitant step forward.

"No, I said _stay back!_" Gaerwen flings the small table into the air and it crashes into the nearby couch. "Stay where you are or I'll, or I'll-"

Zenith staggers upright and limps towards her cautiously. "Gaerwen," he roars, "we're trying to help you! Snap out of it."

_Lies. You know they're lying._

She shakes her head frantically, whimpering. She clutches at her head, pulling at her hair. "Get out, get out, get out, _get out_ of my head-"

"This isn't real! Whatever you're seeing," Zenith says slowly, "it's a hallucination. The Emperor is doing this to you, remember? You're killing his Children and he's fighting back. Well fight back against him!"

"He's, he's," she takes a step back and falls against the metal wall behind her. "But the bugs, they're-"

"Not real," he finishes for her quietly as he stands before her.

Gaerwen blinks. The burning and prickling sensations disappear and he's right, they're gone, _they weren't real. _She starts to hyperventilate. She collapses against Zenith, who catches her with a grunt and holds her tightly.

This time, when she falls unconscious, no nightmares come to her.


	18. Chapter 18

**Someone To Fight For**

**Chapter Eighteen**

Gaerwen wakes up in an unfamiliar med-bay with a pounding headache, and as she reaches up to touch her head, she is unable to move because of leather straps holding back her wrists. Immediately she begins to struggle against her bonds, and a machine squeals loudly in protest. With a bit of concentration, she finds the physical and mental strength needed to use the Force to break herself free, pulling a part some of the medical bed's side railing along with each strapped wrist. She sits up, swinging her legs over the edge, and starts to delicately remove the bonds, then an iv out of her forearm. She winces as she struggles to get it out painlessly.

"Woah, sweetheart, what're you doing-"

Gaerwen turns and sees her father's friend, Doc, standing in the doorway of her small room inside of the medcenter. The blood finally rushes back to her head. Immediately he comes over, shuts off the annoying machines to cease the beeping alarms, and gently pats her cheek before properly removing the iv for her.

"What... What's going on? Where am I?" She rasps, rubbing her aching throat.

He hands her the cup of water resting on the bedside table, and she greedily drinks its entire contents. She wipes her mouth with the back of her wrist and places the cup back.

Doc doesn't look a day over thirty, despite actually being in his late fourties. He's aged well, and if anything, the small flecs of grey on the sides of his hair are complimentary.

"You're on Corellia, hope you like warzones." He folds his arms across his spotless white labcoat. "Coronet City, specifically. You've gone through a bit of a trauma to put it simply. Apparently you've been experiencing some vivid hallucinations?"

Gaerwen nods but sits in a daze. She rubs her eyes and then runs a hand through her hair. That's when she sees the red, blotched scratch marks on her pale arms. Before she can even ask, he begins to explain.

"I was going to ask you about that." Doc pulls up a chair and takes out a small datapad from his coat in case he needs to adjust her medical file. "Your companion Zenith said you were seeing something all over your body? Do you remember?"

"Bugs," she says coarsely. "On myself and everyone."

"You must hate bugs," he jokes.

She glares. "I'm terribly afraid of them." She sighs and shrugs. "I want to speak with my father as soon as possible. In fact, it's imperative that I do."  
"You need to rest, sweetheart."

"No, you don't understand!" She stops Doc from leaving his seat by grabbing his arm. "Please."

He hesitates, as if he's chewing on something. "I'll have Quix contact him."

"Rina's here? I thought she was with him?"

"Your father's defending Guardian Hold One at this moment. The Imperials are hitting it hard, so I don't know if you'll have the chance to talk with him." He shuts off the datapad and puts it away again. When he stands, Gaerwen doesn't stop him.

"Why isn't she helping my father?"

"She's in the process of being transferred for a special mission. I can't say much about it. You know how confidentiality is."

"Okay, fine." She places her hands on her pale, bare knees, and leans over somewhat. "Is Zenith out there? Can you ask him to-"

Footsteps echo in the room, and Gaerwen sees him coming towards her, completely stricken by the fact that she's awake.

"Should she be up?" He asks Doc, who nods.

"It's a good thing. She needs some solid foods." Doc then bows his head. "I'll go tell Rina. She'll probably rush over, so you both ought to have a few minutes." Doc winks and excuses himself.

Gaerwen flushes, and it significantly brightens her ghostly face. She doesn't know what Doc's wink necessarily means, but she hopes it isn't what she thinks it is. It can't be that obvious, can it? Or had Zenith been the obvious one?

Zenith comes to stand before her and gently takes her hands, barely brushing her legs as he does so. The pale blue medical gown ends just above her knees and she feels more self-aware in his presence. Her voice catches in her throat.

"How are you feeling?"

She ignores his question and touches his face.

"I'msosorryforslammingyouintoaw allandnearlyhittingyouwithac hair," she says in one breath.

"It was just a scratch."

"Don't joke around." She slows down and evens out her breathing. Her eyes close and she frowns. "I could have seriously injured someone."  
He concedes. "Was it the Emperor?"

Gaerwen's throat tightens and she nods. Everything from that dream is clear, everything that happened upon waking up is still fresh in her mind.

"I have to talk to my father about it. I...I saw some things. I don't know want them to be true." She reaches up and rubs her neck. "If they're true I want to know why I wasn't told."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"I...I saw what appeared to be scenes from my parents' early years together. When they were ending a threat to the Republic, and then when they were about to face the Emperor. Like I said, I don't know how accurate the dreams' recreations of the events from my parents past are exactly. The Emperor could have manipulated portions with the intention of crippling me."

Something in the back of her mind whispered treachery-that the dreams were not lies. That instead the liar had been her parents and the Jedi Council.

"I need to know the truth. Whatever it is. I should have been told years ago, prior to ever getting this far ingrained in this operation."

Zenith studies her and watches as she lowers her gaze. "You're leaving something out."

"There's no point in talking about something that might not be true. I want the facts before I jump to conclusions."

It's clear he doesn't like her decision. He narrows his brows and shrugs. "It's not that simple. If you're with-holding information that might threaten the operation against the Children-"

"Zenith! I know what I'm doing." She glares, closes her eyes, and sighs. In a partially defeated voice, she says, "You said you trust me. So act on your word and do it."

"It's pretty apparent that you're keeping secrets. How can I trust someone who isn't going to act on her own word? If this has to do with what's happening between you and the Emperor...Gaerwen, you nearly could have hurt someone."

"So much for a scratch, huh?"

"Yeah, for me it's a scratch. What if you had hurt Nadia? What if whatever you're keeping to yourself...You're not thinking straight."

"Look, I'll talk to my father and it'll get sorted out. That's final."

Zenith pushes off the sides of the chair and snorts. "Fine," he snarls, "figure it out yourself."

As Zenith storms out, Rina Quixot enters the small room and is nearly shoved aside by the fuming Twi'lek. She's dressed in white robes plated with silver and blue durasteel panels. Her boots clank against the solid floor. A thin lightsaber hilt rests on her side, looped to her belt. Her red hair is vibrant and pulled back, out of her face. She looks quite young as well for her age, but Wendy imagines Miraluka age slower than their evolutionary human branch.

"Wendy? Is something wrong?"

She swallows the remorse for being hurtful to Zenith. "I need to talk to Ibonar. Immediately."

"You know he's busy, didn't Doc say so?-"

"It doesn't matter. I need to see him. I can't progress further in my own mission without getting some facts straight about him and my mother."

"Well I might be able to answer some of it for you."

"I appreciate that, but I need an answer and an explanation, if what I've known to be true is actually false."

Rina folds her arms and shrugs. "Well, alright, fine. If it's necessary and all."

"Imperative. Dire, even."

Rina helps her up from the medical bed and helps her out of the room, down the hall, and to a private holoterminal.

"You won't get too long, especially if they're in the middle of fending off an assault. Keep it quick."

"Like I said, one question, one answer, one explanation if necessary. I hope it isn't."

Rina types in the appropriate number in order to contact the Guardian Hold. It takes several tries to get through because of static, a poor frequency connection, and simply because they don't pick up on the other end until the third try. The static is too strong and the signal is too weak to get an image.

"Hell's this all about? We're in the middle of an attack here-"

"This is Alpha Delta headquarters, Blindbear speaking, I'm sorry Major, Sir, but I've got a fellow Jedi here who needs to speak with Akkdog. It's imperative to the security of her mission that they speak, if briefly."

"I'll try 'im but he's in the thick of it-Akk! Someone pull that mutt's ass out of the fire and bring 'im here!"

Blasterfire and explosions are heard over the frequency, then shouting, and then her father's voice.

"Akkdog here, what's this all about Bear?"

"Dad-"

"Wendy, what're you, you can't call me over this channel-I'm kind of in the middle of something."

"Look, I'm not going to waste time, I need to know if mother was a Child of the Emperor."

Rina gapes and tugs at Wendy, "I don't think this is the right time or place-"

"No, Rina, it's long overdo."

"What are you saying? You mean that question actually has merit? You're kidding, don't tell me it's really true-"

"Bzzzt...Your moth-" the connection breaks, "wanted to tell-before she passed-Nev-good time."

Gaerwen's eyes widen and she shakes her head. "How couldn't you have told me? Don't you know what this means?" She trembles and steps away from the terminal, horrified. "How could you keep this from me! Don't you know what I'm doing? Is it genetic, has his presence always been here, in my head-"

Another explosion roars over the channel. "Bear, bzzt, losing you-can't stay and talk about this-look after-"

"She's already left, we'll check in later Akkdog."

Gaerwen fleas from the holoterminal, with the intention of gathering her things and heading to her father's position. As she was putting on her own robes in her room, Quix entered.

"Look Wendy, you have to understand..."

"How could the Council assign me to this work if I myself am compromised? How do I know that I'm not another of the Emperor's agents? I'm clearly having my mind invaded by that-I don't understand how they could put me in this position. Did even Master Yuon know? Has everyone known except me?"

"You'll have to ask Masters Shan and Bakarn about that."

"And I will. You can be sure of that."

"Gaerwen, you aren't well, and I'm not letting you chase this down. Your father's got a job, just like yourself. If you have questions, the Council will know better."

Gaerwen huffs and folds her arms. Rina doesn't back down and appears prepared to use force.

"Fine, set up the terminal." She throws up a hand in the air and sighs. "The Council's about to have an earful from me."

* * *

"This is Gaerwen Aurell, Barsen'thor of the Jedi Order. I need to convene members of the Jedi Council in order to discuss Operation Legacy."  
Gaerwen leans over the holoterminal with both hands gripping the device as she waits impatiently for the members to collect themselves and appear before her through holographic imaging.

"Do you have new information about your mission that warrants urgency, Master Aurell?" Master Jaric Kaedan asks in his peevish manner.

"The transfer stated that you sound distressed," Master Bakarn adds.

"It is urgent. I need answers." Gaerwen swallows hard and closes her eyes. She hangs her head and finds the courage to face the truth. Once found, she looks up and asks loudly, "Did the Council know about my mother's status as a Child of the Emperor?"

Masters Shan and Bakarn frown. No one speaks up but it is clear on their faces. Gaerwen pushes off of the holoterminal and mutters a curse under her breath.

"So when were you going to tell me that I'm going after a puppet master who once _controlled_ my mother? When were you going to tell me that this is potentially why I can't go a night without having my rest invaded by that _monster_-"

"Gaerwen," Master Shan gently says, "we didn't understand how the connection between the Emperor and his Children functioned."

"Your mother severed the connection when she and your father defeated Darth Angral." As always, Jaric Kaedan lacks sympathy. Gaerwen knows that her parents did not get along well with this member of the Jedi Council, and that he had been against Kira Carsen's promotion to Jedi Knight. "She wouldn't reopen it for our study in spite of the potential benefits in understanding the Emperor's power base-"

"It wasn't ethical," Bakarn interjects.

"Even when your mother became pregnant she refused to reopen the link, even for your sake."

Gaerwen nods and grips the side of the terminal. She can imagine why her mother refused. The Emperor does not appreciate being trifled with, nor does he allow individuals, especially Jedi, meddling in his affairs. She's seen the results of such efforts against the monstrosity.

"So you have no research in regard to whether or not this connection, the bond a Child shares with the Emperor can be passed down over generations?"

"Kira wanted you to be safe, do not question that," Bela Kiwiiks, Kira Carsen's original master, says, finally entering the conversation. The Torgruta is sombre and regretful.

"I'm not sure if it's best that I can continue with Operation Legacy. If there is a possibility that I may be comprised. Every time I strike down one of his Children the Emperor strikes back harder."

Rina places a hand on Gaerwen's shoulder, a silent gesture of comfort.

Syo Bakarn clasps his hands behind his back. "Gaerwen, the Jedi Council placed you in charge of this task while knowing fully of a possible connection with the Emperor. You are an exemplary Jedi, and at this time you are the only one in the Order besides your father who knows how to counteract his Children and the First Son."

"There is other information," Gaerwen sighs, "the First Son... he may not know that he is in fact _the_ First Son. It is possession by the Emperor, in some ways, but not full control. The vessel may not even realize that they are a Child until they are awoken. It is possible, then, that the First Son can be redeemed and brought into the Light."

"A bold goal, but not an impossible one," Master Kiwiiks adds quietly, and it is clear she is still grieving over the untimely loss of her student. "Your mother sought redemption on her behalf and found it."

"Then you know your task, Master Aurell." Master Shan says. "Finding and extracting the First Son. If he is willing, then we may be able to tap him for information regarding the bond to the Emperor, which Master Quixot can use in her own mission."

Master Jaric Kaedan and Master Shan leave the conversation, and their holograms disappear. Master Kiwiiks and Master Bakarn remain.

"Master Quixot, will you leave Gaerwen and us for a moment?"

Rina bows her head and nods. "Of course," she turns to Gaerwen and adds before leaving, "if you need me I'll be with Doc in the main corridor."

"...Gaerwen, when your Kira and Ibonar learned that they were about to become parents, they truly wanted what was best for you, but they did not fear the Emperor's presence. They knew that even if you did have a connection, that you would become more than that. Just as Kira overcame it. They wanted you to become a Jedi. Do not doubt yourself because of this revelation."

"You have endured much in your life as a Jedi. Master Yuon passed on proud of you and your accomplishments. _I_ am proud of you. When you came into that office on Tython, eager to meet Yuon, excited to continue your studies...we knew then on that you would honor Kira's name as well. We entrusted Operation Legacy to you because we knows that you are the most suited for it, and not simply because of your mother's status as a redeemed Child."

It's powerful words that Gaerwen needed to hear to cease the self-doubt, the fear, and the apprehension. She stands up straight, collects herself, and smiles through moved tears.

"I won't let you down."

* * *

Gaerwen leaves the room with the holoterminal and heads back to the med-bay where she woke up. Inside, she finds Zenith sitting hunched over in the chair, clearly waiting for her return. Upon hearing her soft footsteps, he tilts his head and meets her eyes.

Neither of them say anything as she enters and leans onto the med-bed Gaerwen broke earlier. The awkward, tense silence bothers her, but as she searches for the courage to face him, he beats her to it.

"If you don't want to tell me, then alright, I understand the need for confidentiality."

"No, Zenith, it isn't that." She rubs her eyes and frowns. "I don't want secrets between us. I didn't want to tell you because I...I was scared. One, I didn't know if any of it was true, and two, if it was...is true, I didn't know what you would think of me."

He stands and takes her hands gently. His calloused thumbs trail gently over the backs of her hands.

"I-I care about you so much, Zenith," she hates how her voice cracks and falters. "I don't want you to think less of me. I don't want my crew questioning my judgment."

"Gaerwen, when I said that I trust you, I meant it. You've done so much on my behalf. You don't need to worry about me thinking less of you."

"My mother was a Child of the Emperor, Zenith."

"And you think you're comprised?"

"The Jedi Council doesn't know how the connection with the Emperor works. My mother severed the Emperor's ability to possess her, and she cut down that bond in order to fully become a Jedi. They don't know if I have a predisposition to the Emperor's influence. For all I know," her eyes fall and her brows narrow with shame, "I could be an agent of him, without even knowing. Another of his Children."

"If you were a Child of the Emperor, that scum wouldn't be pushing this hard to weaken you. He would have just had you fall on your blade."

"Perhaps, but we both know how sharp the Empire is. The Emperor could be sacrificing his Children for a bigger end-game than they've imagined."

"I doubt it. The Sith you've picked off are powerful assets. Beyond military, beyond regular Sith. You wouldn't have gotten this far."

Gaerwen sighs and is exhausted from the whole ordeal. Her eyes close half-way, her head hangs limply.

"So I'm not a traitor to you? You still...I mean, you and I?"

"I know you Gaerwen, and you aren't a traitor."

Immediately she comes into his arms, gripping his coat and laying a kiss onto his cheek before resting her head against his shoulder. In turn, he holds her tight, breathing into her auburn hair.

"When this storm passes, we're taking a long break, you and me."

"Name a place and I'll work it out."

"I'll think about it. Do you prefer planets with beaches or planets with mountainous forests?"

"Why not both?"

She laughs. "Good answer."


	19. Chapter 19

**Author's Note**: _This is a chapter I've had semi-finished for awhile, but now that it is finished, it's out of order with this story, unfortunately. This takes place after Belsavis and Voss, but there are no spoilers. T+ towards the end. Involves Gaerwen meeting up with my trooper, Billie, who is her cousin and the daughter of characters seen in my story Sometimes A Gambler Always Wins. Basically they meet up for drinks and conversation at the Slippery Slopes Cantina, and so that Jorgan and Iresso can catch up on old times since they were once squadmates._

* * *

**Someone To Fight For**

**Chapter Nineteen**

"Oh, I don't drink."

Billie snorts and rolls her eyes. "Your loss."

Wendy folds her hands across the table and shrugs. She bites her lip.

"Well it's just I've never had alcohol before."

"You want to try some of this, see if you like it?" she gestures to the glass of electric blue alcohol.

She smiles half-heartedly. "What's it taste like?"

"It's called a _Star Crossed Lover_. It's kind of berry flavored, more sweet than bitter."

"And here I thought you were always a hard alcohol kind of soldier."

"I like to mix it up sometimes." She slides the drink across the table to

Wendy reaches forward and hesitantly takes a sip. "It's not bad actually."

"See, told ya. If you want more it'll be on me."

Wendy nods, smiling, because why not? Billie grins and catches a server droid the next time one passes by in order to purchase another.

"How've you been, Billie? Seems like you're harder to contact these days."

"Well I've got General Garza's confidentiality riding my ass and senators yelling in my ears and you'd be surprised how much paperwork a commanding position requires. Then there's the SIS operatives doing things without telling me and my squad knowing..." She points toward the bar, where Lt. Jorgan and Iresso are catching up on one side and where a tall, dark haired man watches them from the other side. "That's Jonas Balkar. He's a good friend of mine."

"Oh, a friend?"

"Yeah, Wendy, just a friend." She laughs and takes another drink. "I've got my eyes set elsewhere."

"Oh yeah? On who?"

She smirks, and her optics seem to convey as much personality and expression as regular eyes, if not more. "A certain hardass."

"He's your second in command!"

"Second in command or not he's a good man and I like him. S'fun to push his buttons."

"Just his buttons or...?"

Billie gapes, laughs, and raises a brow. "Who's gone and corrupted you?"

Now Wendy shares in the laugh and winks. The server droid arrives with two fresh _Star Crossed Lovers_. Billie takes hers eagerly and raises a toast. Wendy takes hers tentatively and follows suit.

"To friends and family. May they always have a way of corrupting us in the best of ways."

"How poetic."

Their glasses clink, and they each down as much of their drinks as they can. Wendy lowers hers first, coughs, and flushes out of embarrassment.

"It packs a punch if you aren't careful."

"Maybe for a newbie." Billie grins. "If you want to try something that really packs a punch, you should've told me. Next time."

"I don't think it would be a good idea to get drunk. I've got guests on my ship and it's best if I don't give them any reason to question my judgment."

"Got it." Billie finishes the rest of her drink. "So what about yourself then? How've you been?"

"Well, I suppose. Busy."

"Can you spill any of the details or...?"

"It's confidential. Just know it's for the war effort."

"Sure, I know that deal. How's your father?"

"He sends me letters every so often, when he gets the chance. He's how you might expect: to the point, tired sounding. I might be seeing him soon."

"On Corellia?"

"I imagine my work will bring me there."

"Yeah. We'll all be there soon enough." She shrugs. "So what about yourself? You pushin' anyone's buttons?"

Wendy flushes from the cheeks down. Without thinking, she nods her head but says, "No."

Billie laughs and leans forward. "There's a story there. You've got to spill the beans after that slip up."

"You're terrible."

"I'm not the one who denied and admitted to something at the same time."

"Fine, I guess you know, there's this-"

"Oh no, you tell me his name, occupation and rank, where and how you met him. I practically need to be recording this precious information."

"Well he's... His name is Zenith."

Billie raises a brow and calls over the droid again. She off-handedly requests something different, a _Rancor's Roar,_ and then looks back to Wendy.

"So I'm guessing SIS?"

"No, he's from Balmorra. It's his codename-he led a branch of the Resistance there. He doesn't have a real name."

"Resistance, huh? And a leader at that."

"He's now opposition leader in the new Balmorran Republic."

"And political! He sounds like your type."

"Well if you're referring to my interest in diplomacy-"

"Hey, hey, stay on topic."

"Well I went to Balmorra for some diplomatic work, and I needed to help convince Balmorra to join the Republic, of course, after we broke the Imperial oppression."

"So he's a patriot. I can admire someone who's willing to fight for his home against the Empire."

"I... I'm not sure if it's his actual home. I don't know much about his life prior to becoming a member of the Resistance," she lies, for the sake of keeping his past private. "Sometimes it seems like he was born with one hand on his rifle, and a foot in the trenches."

"Obviously you must know more than that."

"It's a guarded topic, and I'm not going to press a topic he isn't ready to divulge. I know the important things, at least."

"So then he joined you. And you just hit it off?"

"I helped him with his campaign. We grew close. There isn't anything spectacular about it."

Billie's third drink arrives and she shakes her head. "I ain't buyin' any of that. You wouldn't be with anyone who was less than spectacular."

"Spectacular isn't the right word. You're right, I wouldn't, but I'm happy." She curls her lips into a smile and twirls a strand of hair. "He's more like one giant puzzle. I mean that in a good way, of course. He's a good man."

They both hear a loud laugh near the bar, and they turn their heads to see Lt. Iresso losing it, clutching at his gut, and practically dying of laughter.

"Good to see they're hitting it off like old times. We'll need to arrange more playdates." Wendy grins and winks.

"Aw hell I'd make for a terrible babysitter."

"So long as you don't try to teach them how to fire a harpoon gun..."

"That's fun! And it's educational. Jorgan taught me and we could teach you and Iresso."

Wendy rolls her eyes and rubs the brim of her glass. She feels the alcohol in the back of her head, warm, fuzzy, and perhaps making everything feel lighter.

"So how come you didn't bring your patriot with you?"

"He had a conference to attend via holo."

Billie nods and slouches in her seat. "That's a shame. I wanna meet your fling-a-ling, the man who's won over Well-Read Wendy."

Wendy blushes and bites her lip. She leans forward and isn't sure if it's herself or the alcohol talking, "You know, sometimes when he's reading aloud, I just can't keep my eyes or my hands off him." She giggles. "He has the..."

"Is sexiest the word you're lookin' for?"

"Yes, that's it! The sexiest voice I've ever heard."

Billie smirks and thumbs the brim of her glass. She glances toward the dance floor.

"Wanna dance?"

"Stars no," humor lights her blue eyes. "You know I can't dance."

"That'a a bunch of bantha shit and you know it. A diplomat who can't dance?"

"Maybe I don't know _these_ dances."

"Ohh, you're right. It ain't proper dancing. It's the sexy kind." She shrugs, finishes her red colored Rancor's Roar and then slides out of the booth. "Watch me get hardass Jorgan to dance."

Wendy nods and watches Billie saunter off. Her cousin's dressed in a slinky crimson dress that clings to her body at every stiff, sharp point. She imagines Billie never gets the chance to wear it, and it only is worn for special occasions.

She sees Billie move past Jorgan and Iresso, swaying her hips to catch Jorgans' eyes, and saunters over to Jonas Balkar. They talk for a few minutes, Jonas smirks, and then takes her hand, pulling her to the dance floor. Wendy glances back to Jorgan, who suddenly is fuming with jealousy. Iresso pats his friend on the shoulder, says something, and then Jorgan pushes off the counter, abandoning his drink, and heads over to the dance floor to confront Billie and Jonas. Iresso walks over to Wendy's booth and sits down across from her.

"It's good to see Jorgan is still a badass and a wreck when jealous."

"Oh she's just playing him I think. She knows he'd never agree to dance with her if she directly asked."

He laughs. "Clever."

"Conniving, certainly. Billie got a lot of that from her father, a privateer of the Republic."

Iresso nods and takes another gulp of his green colored drink, which she presumes is alcohol.

"So are you enjoying your night out?"

"Yep, of course. Seeing Billie is something I'd like to do more of."

"Well I wouldn't mind seeing Jorgan more often. It's good to have a familiar face."

"How are you getting along with the rest of my crew? Since you bring it up."

"It's a strange bunch, isn't it?"

"Strange but certainly keeps me on my toes."

"Qyzen has the most interesting stories from his hunts." He pauses and scratches his head. "Tharan's still messing with that chemical formula he keeps going on about. One day I'm worried he's going to create a monster or something in that lab of his."

Wendy laughs and nods.

"And Nadia's sweet. She's kind of a middle ground amongst the whole crew. Her people have a fascinating history. I love hearing her tell stories," he smiles appreciatively. "Her blue eyes light with a pretty smile, and I just melt."

Wendy's eyes widen and she gasps. She blinks and wonders if it's the alcohol or if Lt. Iresso has a crush on Nadia.

"And then Zenith's a lot like Jorgan. A hardass. Always likes the weapons arsenal clean and organized. Only difference is he keeps to himself most of the time. Hardly see him around. He's like a ghost. When I do see him he's calibrating that rifle of his."

Wendy flushes but nods. She'll never admit, even to a drunken Iresso, that Zenith's absence is because he spends so much time with her, particularly late in the evening and often behind closed, locked doors.

"Hollow Voice and Gaden-Ko are something else entirely. Talk about fascinating people."

"Well I'm glad you like my crew. It's good to hear a sense of cohesion has developed. We'll need that for Corellia."

Suddenly, Wendy feels his presence in the Force, hears his slow, even steps despite his distance from her. She turns her attention partially away from Iresso and stands from the booth. She leaves a few credits on the table, instructing him that his drinks are on her this evening.

"That's nice of you, though I never thought a Jedi would support a long tab."

Wendy smiles innocently, though there is a glint of mischief in her eyes. She starts to walk away from Iresso, but pats his shoulder and says,

"Just say sharp in here, alright? It's Nar Shaddaa afterall." She then slips by and heads for the second level of the Slippery Slopes, where Zenith's gaze originated from. This is what she hoped for. She wanted him to see her in something other than scholarly robes singed by battle. Tonight's she wears an aquamarine colored shimmersilk dress that's modest and simple, with frilly sleeves that hang horizontally off her shoulders and a hem that touches her knees. It isn't a tight cocktail dress by any stretch of the imagination, and she worried briefly if it was too formal for a club, but she feels comfortable in it regardless. Wendy knows that either way he'll find her attractive.

* * *

Zenith stands at the balcony's edge looking down over the main floor until he hears her approaching.

"Spying on the fun, were you?" She says when she stands beside him, bare forearms resting on the railing.

"Meeting ended early."

"Glad to hear it. I wanted you to see my cousin, even if she's just a whirling blur on the dance floor from up here."

"The blonde with the optics?"

"How'd you know?"

"Looked her up on the HoloNET. Saw a picture of her from when she worked on Balmorra."

"Oh, of course."

In this club they are physically unarmed for the most part, and they don't have to stand guard because they no one will recognize them. They can be simply a man and a woman, not a sniper and a jedi.  
Zenith's hand slides over the small of her back, and while at first she is surprised by his public display of affection, she realizes it's the norm of Nar Shaddaa, and this is how people fit in. His hand lazily runs up and down her back.

"You look beautiful," he whispers into her ear after pushing a few strands of hair out of her eyes.

Wendy blushes and shifts her body so that she's pressed against him. It's bold and daring, but Nar Shaddaa is bold and daring, and it's okay to indulge in the moment at hand.

She grips his cream colored shirt and kisses him. The kiss remains mostly innocent, Nar Shaddaa or not they have their limits. When Wendy pulls away, she asks with half-lidded eyes if he'll dance with her.

After temporary hesitation-Zenith is always the more shy one-he accepts with the caveat that she can't complain when he steps on her feet. She only grins and laughs as she pulls him along to the dance floor on the second level.

**-**  
Wendy doesn't know how to dance like the other patrons of the Slippery Slopes, and for several moments she hopelessly tries to explain an Alderaanian waltz to Zenith over the blaring music. It's an amusing sight, and it's earning them more raised eyebrows than fleeting glances.

Eventually Zenith ignores Wendy's instructions by pulling her hips forward so that their lower halves meet in the middle, and it's so unsuspected and surprising that she squeaks and turns as red as a ripe zherry. Zenith is clearly the more observant one, and he's picked up on the tone and atmosphere of the club's dancing. It's grinding and touching and sweating and heavy breathing and it's enough to make even the most liberal of Jedi faint-because it's unabashedly sex on the dance floor, and with Zenith it's mesmerizing yet gritty.

As they dance as if they're one melded body, Wendy off-handedly wonders if this is what the Dark Side feels like, unchecked passion and pleasure, emotion, and lust for something more tangible than knowledge. It makes her head spin and her pulse quicken, and as her breath mingles with Zenith's, meeting his sharp angles with her curves at every intersection, she feels that normally restrained woman evolve into something more potent and brazen than ever before.

They slip out of the dance floor when it becomes too hot and neither one can take it any longer. Part of her can't believe she's doing this, searching the area for a secluded corner where he can press her back into a stone wall and make her come a part at the seams.

They find that secluded corner and it's fumbling with tight clothes, panting between kisses, and finally coming together with the others name on their tongues.

As a giddy afterthought, she knows she'll have to tell Billie that she's more than right: a stuffy waltz can't beat a good tango.


	20. Chapter 20

**Someone To Fight For**

**Chapter Twenty**

In the end, she can no longer resist the Emperor's taunts and sneers. The Dark Side haunts this cave where goodness dies, and it's not a bad thing either-it will lessen the emotional blow back afterwards.

Master Syo is a puppet now. A pawn of a chessmaster, who has the upper hand, who will always have the upper hand because the Dark Side never hesitates to cheat, murder, lie, and steal, never pauses in the wake of opposition.

Her blood boils. This war has taken too much from her; a mother, a father, a master, too many other members of her Order, and now Master Syo, if he ever was Master Syo. There's no time to contemplate the possession. Self-defense is priority.

Zenith, thank her lucky stars, stands beside her poised for battle with his sniper rifle in his hands, perfectly calibrated for this moment. Her crew fights on the surface, defending the guardian hold from further Imperial invasions.

If only we had arrived sooner.

Master Syo is now the voice of the Emperor, or is the First Son merely an entity like the Emperor? She isn't sure if she's speaking to a created separate puppetmaster, the malignant darkness inside of Syo, or the actual Emperor. Either way, she demands retribution.

"This is the last stand. I will not let you take anything else from me. I'm going to cut you down and make sure you never take another life again."

**-**

It's a terrible task: fighting a friend and mentor, even if he's lost his semblance of sanctity, loyalty, and compassion.

Its taunts pierce deep, and it takes all of her resolve to pull away from the fighting, to pull away from the anger and spite and zealotry in order to remember that Master Syo, though buried beneath the rubble of his self, lies there in wait and needs to be rescued. That is the purpose of the mission. Not vengeance for past crimes. Not for tortured evenings of little sleep. Not for the hallucinations and pain. Not for the loss of loved ones. Gaerwen forces herself to dissociate herself from her personal vendetta and remember the bigger goal.

She lowers her blade from Syo's neck, and sheathes her light-saber, trusting the notion that this entity is weakened and Master Syo can help her fight from within herself. Without further hesitation, she finds her center, gathers the last bit of physical and mental dexterity, and performs the healing ritual upon the fallen Jedi's mind and body. Master Syo Bakarn collapses and faints from the ordeal. They'll call for a Republic military extraction once they're on the surface.

Afterward, her head is dizzy, her eyes heavy, and though she feels gravity push her down, her battered and bruised sniper catches her as he always does. They don't have much time. The instability of the cave is cause for concern for her entire crew.

Gaerwen looks up into Zenith's eyes.

"I would've never given someone like that mercy," he grunts.

"It isn't Master Syo's fault." Her hands clench into fists and her breath is heavy from exhaustion. "It's that monsters." She steadies herself and stands. She rubs the bridge of her nose. Bitterness hangs like weights in her eyes. "Another day, another battle."

"You won this battle Gaerwen."

She nods, but her smile is solemn and half-hearted. She searches for good things to hold onto.

"I have to stay here." She pauses and clasps her hands in front of her.

"Syo will need medical attention when he comes to. Also, if the cave continues to crumble, I may be able to-"

Zenith shakes his head and raises his voice.

"No way in hell am I letting you stay in a collapsing cave in order to risk your life helping him. We don't know what-"

"And that's why. We don't know. The Jedi need to know." She reaches out and touches Zenith's face. "Deep down you know it's important. This could help turn the tide. Rina needs us to acquire all possible information about the Emperor."

"Well I'm not leaving you."

"Go climb up the ladder and tell the others what's happened. They'll call a transport."

Zenith stares at her, studies her, and though it's what needs to be done, he doesn't trust her, not when it comes to this.

"They need to be told, Zenith."

He grunts and carefully meanders around fallen portions of the cave, heavy boulders, and debris from the facility above, towards the ladder.  
Gaerwen looks back to Master Syo and sighs. She sits down beside him and crosses her legs, as if to prepare herself for a meditative trance. When Zenith returns, he kneels in front of her, gesturing to a med-pack her crew tossed down.

"You're beaten up pretty badly."

"What? You don't find battle grime attractive?"

Zenith smirks and laughs. "Every other circumstance, yes, I would." He breaks open the seal and dabs the kolto onto his hand. His fingers rub in the cool green liquid into her cheek, forehead, and neck over various wounds. The gash on her cheek is the deepest, sliced by a sharp rock from the collapsing cave.

"Honestly thought you would have sealed off the cave behind me."

"And what?" She laughs at the absurdity "Trap myself in? Of course not. I wouldn't do that to you."

Zenith sighs and lowers his gentle fingers in order to focus on her blue eyes.

"How long until the transport arrives?"

"Ten, fifteen minutes. Lots of Imperials out there."

Gaerwen takes the med-pack and pours some of its contents into her hand, where the callouses are sore.

"How are you holding up?"

"There's time and place to mourn my father later. This isn't it." She looks down and shrugs listlessly. "He did the right thing, defending this place till government betrayed him and the other Republic soldiers to the Empire. Did all he could. He's with Kira now; they work better as a team."

Silence falls between them, and in the quiet of this cruel cave, Zenith pulls her aching body into his arms and holds her.


	21. Chapter 21

**Someone To Fight For **

**Chapter Twenty-One**

It's supposed to be a party, a grand celebration of success against the Empire and the cessation of conflict on Corellia, but it feels more like a funeral for her. The ceremonial splendor and grandeur is overwhelming; it's something bigger and more superfluous than anything else she has ever experienced in her short life. Most importantly, she feels unworthy of the celebration, and she wishes for nothing more than to do what's necessary and then fade away from the crowd, to retreat while she can.

The smiles and respectable bows are tiring and banal; she can't put her heart into it no matter how hard she tries. This war has taken too much from her: a master in death and a master in spirit, a father, and too many young Jedi by her indirect hand and soldiers under her command. It's difficult to not think about the loss of life-difficult to stand stoic and proud as the newly titled master on the Jedi Council-the seat's tainted, and the wounds accompanying the loss are too fresh.

The heralded Barsen'thor.

Nadia and Alauni had dressed her in formal robes, a brown dress with green highlights. It's nothing like the tattered, scorched armor that had helped save her life against Master Syo, the First Son, she reminds herself sternly (though it will be difficult separating the two). Nadia told her she looked admirable, and Alauni had made a coarse comment that perhaps someone may dance with her. She could only smile and shake her head in humility.

Nadia empathizes with her, and she approaches her newly named master, who stands on the side of the commotion, solemnly: there's no cheerful smile so common of Nadia, but instead an echoed exhaustion.

"We're very thankful for your support, master." Nadia's referring to the Sarkhai people. "I've made my first difficult decision in my father's role: deciding whether to maintain a war monument or to build a spaceport."

"Oh?" Gaerwen asks over the brim of her glass of Alderaanian wine, a gift from House Organa and House Teral-she doesn't drink alcohol, but it's proper to appear thankful, and she'll hand it off to Tharan when she gets the chance.

"I decided to maintain the monument."

"A testament to history, then."

"A spaceport can be built elsewhere, given time and patience. You can't erase history. You shouldn't try to."

Gaerwen nods and offers a small smile. "I'm proud of you, my padawan."

She's trying her best to sound like Master Yuon, trying so diligently to emulate her respect, dignity, and warm authority. The diction helps set the tone, of masters and padawans, but they both know the stark truth: that they are more like damaged companions seeking to help one another through a difficult time than a teacher and a student.

"What are you going to do next?"

"Settle some affairs on Tython." It's a reasonable answer, though a euphemism for helping Master Syo begin his recovery, given the opportunity. Gaerwen sighs; the truth of the matter is that she is clueless of what her job as a council member actually entails, and she looks to Master Shan for guidance in both areas.

"I had hoped to continue diplomatic work."

"I think you've made a wonderful diplomat, master. You can't continue to serve as one?"

"I don't know, honestly." Her eyes speak volumes of vulnerability and apprehension that she is unable to suppress.

"I think I need to sit down," she tells Nadia quietly. It's an excuse to escape from the party and seek shelter elsewhere.

Nadia understands and lets her leave with a bow of her head and an uttered "be well." Gaerwen finds Tharan, shoves the glass of wine into his hand, and then leaves to find a secluded alcove inside of the Senate Tower. Eventually she finds an area that has two benches facing a large open balcony which exhibits the beautiful Coruscanti night sky, a sky that once held mystery and excitement when she was a young girl dreaming of traveling the stars. She looks at the emptiness of far off space briefly, but lowers her eyes and holds her head in her hands.

Though she cannot release her pent up frustration and sadness at this time, she lets herself sit peacefully.

Too peacefully, perhaps, because she fails to hear footsteps behind her, and then a hand rests upon her shoulder, offering a comforting squeeze. His presence radiates through the Force and she does not lift her head for fear of finally cracking beneath the weight of others' eyes.

To her relief, he too understands, and Zenith comes to sit beside her in silence. It becomes quiet enough that she can hear his even breathing, and it too is soothing. There is so much to say, so much conflict in her thoughts, but instead she continues to let the blood rush to her head until it is too much to bear.

When Gaerwen's head lifts and she resettles herself on the bench, she folds her hands in her lap and closes her eyes. His hand reaches out for hers, takes it, and squeezes. It's a physical gesture of empathy, and it is enough to make her head turn and for her eyes to meet his.

"I need to go to Tython," she whispers hoarsely. If she raises her voice any higher it'll crack and it'll be too late to remedy the situation. "There will be a proper ceremony. His ashes are to be scattered with my mother's as requested in his will."

He nods.

"I don't know how long I'm going to stay. I need to help Master Syo."

"Stay as long as you need."

"I want to take Nadia. Teach her there as she should be taught. Like a proper padawan."

Silence falls between them, and as Gaerwen continues to look at his eyes, at the lines on his face, she loses it, and her lip twitches and her nose wrinkles. She closes her eyes and looks away.

"I-I guess...we're done then. The fight's done for now." She narrows her brows and collects herself. "There's no more gallivanting across the stars in search of a beach and forest planet."

Zenith releases her hand and pulls her body against his, embracing her. He breathes into her hair and holds her gently.

"Trustworthy people stick together, Gaerwen." He sighs and frowns. "Now more than ever."

She pulls away in order to look into his eyes again. Her own are bloodshot, aching from recent late nights, sleepless ones, and hard memories. She studies him, touches his freckle, and lets her hand fall away to rest on his shoulder.

"Why? Trust is so fleeting."

He grips her tighter. "Not from me it isn't."

She smiles weakly. "Is that so?"

Zenith hesitates, stops himself, and it's clear that he's chewing on something. She hasn't seen him so apprehensive and tense in several months-it's clearly important.

As silent moments pass, he loosens his grip on her shoulders and rubs his thumb over her own freckles. Her eyes widen.

"Go to Tython. I'll go with you if you want."

She nods. "I...I'd like that. Appreciate it. But what about Balmorra?"

"You've got a holoterminal somewhere on that planet, don't you?"

She then shifts to lay her head against his shoulder, apathetic to the possibility that someone may see his arm wrapped around her. Too much else has happened for this to be scandalous: so she closes her eyes and relaxes.

"You have more freckles," he tells her quietly while running a hand over her hair.

"Dance with me, Zenith." She smiles coyly. "I mean real dancing. The traditional sort."

She hears him groan behind her. "Will it make you happy?"

"Yes, very much so, in fact." Her smile morphs into a wicked one.

Dancing isn't a cure-all, but it is a distraction. "Who else am I to dance with? This is somewhat of a celebration, right?"

He shrugs and takes her extended hand. Once settled together, she places one of his hands on her hip while their other hands are joined.

"Now I can properly explain how to do an Alderaanian Waltz. Unless you already know how to perform this dance?"

His eyes light up with amusement. "What do you think?"

"I'll take that as a maybe? You could have been inspired by our...," she flushes, "previous _dancing_ arrangement."

He laughs sheepishly, as his cheeks redden, and she joins in.  
As they begin the attempt at a waltz, it becomes clear that his confidence lays elsewhere, beyond this formal manner of dancing. He is clumsy, tense, too-fast-paced, and lacking cohesion. It reminds her of him reading his speech. He needs a guiding hand.

"Fear not Zenith, I will be your teacher," she announces. She gestures towards their feet and explains the pattern. "Two steps back, one step forward, let's just try that. It's no waltz but it's a start. I'll lead first."

This time he doesn't step on her toes, and they find a rhythm in this simple movement. After minutes pass, she notices how he has caught on, and in turn, she decides to experiment. Ever the quick learner, he catches on, and soon they add spinning and twirling to their gentle pace.

It is pleasant enough to cause her to hum a made up tune on the spot. She meets his eyes and her smile is indeed three sizes larger than before. Her heart pounds in her chest, and it's an exciting feeling. Zenith surprises her by dipping her, and she bursts into flushed laughs.

"I think you've exceeded the teacher."

His resulting smile is genuine as they settle together again, lazily swaying on the balcony with the cool evening breeze brushing through her hair and producing gooseflesh on her forearms. His smiles are always so fleeting and rare, but nonetheless beautiful. She wishes he smiled more, but she knows it's simply not in his nature. She cherishes them, fights in order to see them again, and wants nothing more than his happiness. She continues standing strong and living just to see him smile again.

It is here on this balcony, dancing with Zenith to a far off beat, that she realizes she loves him, and her heart skips. He is her steady constant in this unpredictable, chaotic galaxy. She will always be able to rely on him, and she doesn't want to be away from him. The sentiment spins in her head, she chews on the words, wants to tell him, but is afraid.

"I told you a good dance would help my spirits." She says once they part in order to lean against the railing.

"I'm glad." His Force Signature is so warm now, almost inviting. Had her present self told her past self what lay beneath Zenith's exterior, her past self may have laughed and shook her head.

Gaerwen stares out across the Senate market area and plaza as strands of auburn hair whisp around her face.

"You know my mother and father fell in love on Coruscant."

"Yeah?"

"They were going after some schematics stolen from one of the Republic's generals. Vital information, highly confidential. My father always said that if it had not been for Kira Carsen, he surely wouldn't have succeeded in his mission. Not only because of it's difficulty, but because of how frustrating it was. She kept him on his toes." She sighs thoughtfully. "They were a good pair. Worked well together, everyone tells me."

"No point in being with someone you can't work with."

"My thoughts exactly."

Silence falls between them as they enjoy the view. However, as she continues thinking of her own parents, a question crosses her thoughts but she only chews on it.

"Might as well get it out."

She hesitates nonetheless. "I was thinking about what you told me. How you were born into slavery. What of your parents? How did they come together?"

Zenith frowns and he shrugs. "Never knew them well enough to know the answer to that."

"You never asked anyone who knew them?"

"Never crossed my mind at the time."

Gaerwen nods and looks away from him.

"Then I'll write their story." Her smile is blissful. "They were in love, despite the adversity...they only had one another, and then you. And they wanted you to find your place in the galaxy as a free man."

"Awfully sentimental and idealistic for two slaves."

"Would you prefer something more grim?"

Zenith hesitates, narrows his brows, and grunts. She takes that as a clear 'no.'

He frowns and shrugs. "Wish I did know what happened to them at least."

"Isn't there any research we could do?" Wendy tries to be optimistic, even though she knows the unfortunate answer.

"I don't even know their names or numbers."

Gaerwen is about to say something, but then falls short. She nods, and it appears the trail is cold for the most part. There's nothing to be done. Some mysteries must remain so.

"I think they would be proud of you." Her smile reappears and she takes his hand. "Look at how far you've come. What you've accomplished. All that's to come in your life. Wherever they are, I'll imagine that they're alive, liberated, and together...And I hope they have an inkling, maybe just a spec of a sensation that you're well."

He looks down and grips the railing. Zenith remains silent, and she gives him the time he needs.

"Feel like I'm constantly thanking you."

"I would say the feeling's mutual," she says with an added laugh. "But that's what you do...well, for the people you love."

Zenith turns to face her, with his purple eyes meeting her blue ones, and she follows suit, taking the hand that gripped the railing as well.

"For the people you love, huh?"

"For the _person_ I love."

"For the person I love."


	22. Chapter 22

**Someone To Fight For**

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

Gaerwen hums quietly. As her relaxed, centered body lifts off of the brown withered meditation mat, her concentration tightens in order to keep herself steady. Moments pass slow, drawn out by the semblance of time being extended. Her thoughts still, shallow breath escapes her lips, and like many times before, she finds her spiritual and physical peace.

She imagines a tranquil alternative to the coldness and professionalism of her ship—a place like Alderaan, where the grass is green, where the wind blows gently over the blades of grass and through the evergreen trees, where the snow melts in the late spring and floods the crystal rivers, where you can pick fresh fruit off of the low shrubbery, where…

This is her time to relax and unwind, and unlike the baths she enjoys, meditation trains mental discipline and inspires focus towards her connection with the Force. Her shipmates know better than to interrupt her, though the acknowledged understanding is that emergencies and priority information about the war are more important than meditation; thus, those are appropriate circumstances for interruption. It's better now because the Rift Alliance no longer travels with her, and they were the ones most likely to break her meditation.

Yet regardless of the understanding and unspoken manner of common law aboard her ship, somehow, someway, this personal time in particular always manages to be interrupted, Rift Alliance or not—

_Knock, knock_.

Gaerwen's eyes open, her concentration slips away abruptly, and she falls down onto her rear with a thump. Though she wasn't levitating high to begin with, it's nonetheless unexpected and she winces at the temporary pain.

"Come in," she says as she rubs her thigh.

Nadia enters her quarters. "I'm sorry, master. Master Satele's called on you. She and the other masters requested that you change course for Coruscant as soon as possible."

Gaerwen nods and stands from her cross-legged position. She tries to force the frown away, tries to appear collected and proper, but the disappointment settles in her eyes. She hoped that any interruption would regard an early homecoming from Zenith, who is away on critical political business on Balmorra that required his physical presence.

"Very well, I'll tell Holiday. Can you send a transmission to Zenith telling him that there will be a slight delay in our original scheduled rendez-vous?"

"Of course," Nadia's smile is bright and cheery enough to reach her eyes. Her good-spirit rubs off onto her master. "If there's time, do you think we could go down into the Galactic Market? I wanted to see if I could find a gift for Lt. Iresso's birthday."

"Oh stars, his birthday is coming up?" Wendy blinks. "Wait, wait, wait, I haven't missed any, have I—"

"No, you haven't." They both walk out of Gaerwen's quarters and head for the common area. "Though, even if you accidentally did, we all understand, master. It's been a tough few weeks."

"We'll have to arrange something special for everyone. Like a cake maybe?" She laughs half-heartedly, "Just in case I did."

"Well, Lt. Iresso likes chocolate, Tharan goes on and on about how he likes zherries, I'm not really sure what Qyzen would like as a gift, do trandoshans even celebrate birthdays?…"

* * *

The meeting with Master Satele Shan and the other members of the Jedi Council tested her patience and after three hours of debate and discussion about the future of the Jedi Order's influence, purpose, and contribution to the war efforts, she's eager to meet Nadia at the speeder port.

Her padawan is dressed casually in loose brown pants and a blue, modest blouse. Her hair is pulled back into a short pony-tail, with loose strands framing her heart shaped face.

"Now I feel over dressed," Gaerwen teases, gesturing to the more ornate robes draped over her body.

After purchasing a yellow speeder from the droid, Nadia drives, and they brainstorm potential gifts for Iresso.

"Soldiers like armor. You can't go wrong with new armor." Gaerwen smiles to herself as she fondly recalls Zenith's surprise towards her own gift so long ago.

"Father hated getting clothes for holidays, but I always got him new robes either way. You can never have enough formal outfits in his line of work."

They arrive at the busy Galactic Market's speeder port after a short drive. As they wander through the semi-dense crowds, Gaerwen lets Nadia take the lead. They window shop through formal clothing stores and armories where custom armaments are made. Nadia explains the story of how she subtly manipulated Iresso into revealing his measurements and preferences, eliciting a good laugh from both of them.

There are many potentials for the lieutenant, from Czerka's latest top of the line chest pieces, gauntlets, and helmets, to Uribikken & Co's competitive line of top-tier gadgets and helmet interfacing upgrades.

"This is actually harder than I thought. It's so much easier to just wear robes."

"No kidding."

Eventually Nadia concedes and decides that purchasing armor as a gift isn't the same as purchasing formal clothes. In the end, it's better for the actual user to pick out his or her own armor. They stumble upon a general department store that sells almost anything either of them can think about.

"What about cologne?" Nadia asks with a hopeful smile as they pass by various beauty products. "Tharan said that men really like getting cologne as gifts."

Gaerwen raises a brow and studies her padawan. She imagines that there's a degree of duplicity and inappropriate intentions in Tharan's advice.

"Does he use any?"

"I think so. At the ceremony he smelled great." The light in her eyes temporarily fades and her cheeks flush. "I mean, he was standing next to me, master, I wasn't—"

"I suppose cologne's a good idea," Wendy says, dodging Nadia's flustered response. "Like Tharan said, I imagine a soldier doesn't automatically think to purchase something like it."

Nadia's features soften and she smiles timidly. The two of them then test various scents, from ones that smell like amber, to forests, and to spices, and after trying several, Nadia chooses the one that smells like a certain spice that neither of them can pronounce. While Nadia purchases the cologne with her small stipend of credits, Gaerwen picks her favorite of the bunch and heads to a different cashier so as not to rouse Nadia's curiosity about her own gift-giving. When they meet up again, Gaerwen's already stashed her gift in her satchel, and they head out into the streets of the market again.

"There's a bakery nearby, I think. We can order a cake, hide it in the freezer, and when we pick up Zenith again we can have a party for Iresso and everyone else." As Nadia happily muses about the upcoming party, it suddenly dawns on her. "Oh, I never had the chance to ask Zenith! Do you know what flavor Zenith likes?"

"_Chocolate_." She pauses. "I mean, I think that's what he likes. Though frankly he's not really into sweets."

"That's too bad. Well, either way, looks like it's going to be a chocolate and zherry cake." Nadia grins and beams. "I can't wait to see the look on his face!"

* * *

When they arrive back at the ship, Nadia immediately goes to her bunk in order to wrap her gift. Gaerwen stashes the small circular cake inside of the ship's fridge, towards the back, with a sign that reads: _DO NOT TOUCH_. Though it won't decrease the actual travel time significantly, she's eager to get to the bridge and punch in the coordinates for Balmorra—

"Planning a party, Wendy?"

Immediately Gaerwen pulls away from the fridge, hits her head on the top of it, and shuts the door as quick as possible. She turns and sees, to her relief, Tharan standing in the doorframe to the Defender's kitchen.

"Stars, you scared me."

"Apologies, Jedi. Nadia's enthusiasm piqued my curiosity."

"It's Nadia's gift for Iresso; she's the one planning it. Keep it quiet."

"Of course, I have no intention of being a spoil-sport."

As Gaerwen makes her way out of the kitchen, he briefly stops her at the doorframe. "Zenith replied while you and Nadia were away. He wanted you to know that the delegations regarding Balmorra's presence in the war effort are being extended for another week."

Once again she reminds herself to remain only mildly disappointed in the news. "I'm surprised that the debate is continuing for this long. I would have presumed that Balmorra would have eagerly helped further with the war effort."

"You'll need to ask Zenith about that. His tone was rather unsavory and blunt, though that's no surprise to any of us, no?"

Gaerwen bites her tongue. "Of course." With Tharan, it's sometimes best to agree with him, or otherwise face his own stubborn, persistent curiosity. "Anyways, if you need me Tharan, I'll be on the bridge checking the HoloNET."

He doesn't keep her any longer, and she finds her way to the bridge and slumps into the captain's chair. She props her feet against the galaxy map's projector and sighs. Another week without Zenith? That brings the current projected length of time up to a five weeks. It's a solemn, unfortunate separation, however temporary, and it tests her patience and a different manner than the Jedi Council.

This is what they agreed to. This is how they can continue traveling together, because there's no explicit reason for Zenith to stay aboard her ship without revealing it all into the light.

_Distance makes the heart grow fonder_, as her father always said. Her heart sinks.

She digs into the satchel still at her side and pulls out the semi-wrapped cologne. She runs her fingers over the bottle, and then sighs.

It's a shame; the cake won't last long enough for his return.


	23. Chapter 23

**Someone To Fight For **

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

They decide to stay on Coruscant for the time being until they need to head to Balmorra to pick up Zenith.

No one on her ship complains about extra shore leave before Gaerwen receives the clearance to dive into the hunt for the remaining Children of the Emperor, who are now exposed with the help of Syo Bakarn's connection to those entities. They need all of the swiftness and agility in order to help weaken the Emperor for her god-mother's push against him, which, in turn, will further help the war effort.

Iresso's party takes place in a park on the upper levels of Coruscant's political district. Nadia beams and Iresso can't seem to stop thanking her thoughtfulness. Tharan and Holiday play nice with the two, and Qyzen, though not interested in eating cake, presents a short speech honoring the lieutenant's work as a hunter alongside the Scorekeeper's Herald. Afterwards, Lt. Iresso opens his gift, and to no one's surprise, Iresso flushes and Nadia, in turn, is bashful and sweet.

"We'll have to attend another formal event in which we'll all get dressed up, and I mean actually dressed up, and you'll be able to wear it," Gaerwen adds as they head back to the ship after a long afternoon of laughs, stories, and celebration.

"You got it, Wendy." He smiles. "Shame Zenith couldn't be here. He deserves a break before we ship out again."

"I'm sure he'll take plenty of time for himself calibrating his rifle, shadow-boxing in the armory, and lurking around my ship and eating C2's leftovers from dinner."

Iresso laughs. "I guess everyone relaxes differently?"

Wendy nods, but hums wistfully as she thinks of Zenith.

"Hey, so, uh, Gaerwen…" she raises a brow and returns her attention towards him. He doesn't use her real name unless he's speaking strictly serious matters. "I was wondering if it would be possible for Nadia and I to stay behind, just for a few hours? I wanted to…" Felix rubs the back of his neck after stopping. "I thought we could go out and get something to eat. My way of thanking her."

"You know how gift-giving works, right?" Wendy quips with a smirk and a shrug. "Why not? Don't stay out too late. Keep an eye on her."

"Of course," he makes to run ahead and catch up with Nadia, who's talking with Qyzen, "I'll talk to you later."

* * *

Gaerwen returns to the spaceport and finds her ship empty—the others are still enjoying their shore leave. It's quiet and peaceful on her ship—no roudy diplomats, no explosions from Tharan's lab—and she hums a made up tune to herself.

It's a good opportunity for relaxing, and she heads for her quarters. Once inside, she turns on her fresher and then undresses. When the water's warm, she steps into the fresher partially, but the intercom turns on and C2's voice fills the ship.

"Master, there is an individual attempting to enter the ship, but has failed the lock code four times."

Gaerwen closes her eyes, rubs the bridge of her nose, and lets out a sigh of frustration. Half of her body is wet as she steps away, And grabs her brown robes from off of the hook, pulling it around her.

"Do you know who it is?" She asks over the intercom in her quarters.

"I believe Master Zenith given the security system's voice recognition soft—"

Immediately Gaerwen heads for the ship's entrance, hoping that it truly is Zenith on the outside, waiting. She practically runs, and once in front of the door she opens it with the correct password.

Something inside of her flushes and sparks inside of Gaerwen when the door flings open and her twi'lek sniper stands on the other side, arms folded across his coat, brows narrowed, and a scowl upon his face after having failed at the ship's password. She'll have to apologize for not telling him the updated code over the Holo…

Zenith lifts his head and tension falls from his features and is replaced with astonishment. Gaerwen leans against the side of the door's frame, grinning deviously. She's barefoot and practically naked before him—at least in comparison to her typical attire. One side of her clothes clings to her body, and half of her hair is damp and stuck to her face.

Gaerwen isn't sure if he's stunned speechless or unfazed, but either way, she finds the boldness to reach forward and drag him inside until their standing together in the stairway leading to the exit of the ship, kissing one another.

No words are exchanged as she continues to tug on their joined hands and lead them to her quarters. The inside of her private fresher is steamy and humid. To assuage Zenith, Gaerwen pushes off his coat, then his shirt, and fumbles with his belt, as she returns to kissing him. In turn, he kicks off his own boots carefully and eventually helps her with the belt. Once he stands before her bare of clothing, he slides off her robe, and they find their way under the spray of warm water from the shower.

Their slick bodies fit together, and as she presses him against the wall with her hand around him tight, he swallows her pants with his lips and holds her steady. After being away from him for so many weeks, Gaerwen needs him inside her, around her, and she guides him into her, joining together until they're wholly one. Their hips roll together, slow and evenly at first until the tempo quickens, and they climb higher and higher together. When they meet at the _zenith_ of their joining, he groans against her heaving breast, digs his fingers into her hips, and she arches her back, whimpers, and falls silent again after moaning his name one final time.

They shut off the water afterward and just stand together in the stall, arms intertwined around the other.

"Stars I've missed you," Gaerwen says with a laugh. "You're back early. The code…I'm sorry about that. We changed it today, in fact. Completely slipped my mind."

"Delegations ended yesterday. Balmorra's going to continue supplying the Republic with droids and technology."

She smiles as she lays her head against his wet chest. Even though it's politics, it's good news, and it makes her happier in their afterglow.

"The Jedi Council approved our continued involvement. I'm to lead a task force that'll divide and conquer the remaining Children."

He nods. Politics are dropped for the time being, and Gaerwen turns on the fresher again, only this time with lukewarm water. They wash each other, using Gaerwen's lavender scented soap on both of them, and her shampoo and conditioner on herself. It becomes a silent game of harmless teasing of the other, with the intention of making the other succumb.

Eventually, Zenith loses, and they make love again, slower and in less of a flurry. They take the time to explore one another again, and like always, Gaerwen gives each of his scars affection and attention; in turn, he kisses her slowly and delicately—a sniper always manages to handle his work with precision and calculated care—and he knows all of the tender, ticklish places that make her release the most adorable giggles.

Afterward, they step out, dry off, and settle together under the sheets of her bed, laying on their sides.

"We celebrated Iresso's birthday and all the one's we may have missed during the chaos. They're staying out late into the evening for shore leave. You missed out on a good cake. Chocolate and zherry."

"You taste better."

Gaerwen rolls her eyes and laughs. The silence that follows is temporary, and broken when he pulls her body close.

"Harder to sleep now?"

"Easier, actually." She stifles a yawn and shrugs. "I think breaking the control of the First Son really wounded him. If it did, I'm thankful. It may be temporary, and the nightmares might return when he regains strength. He'll want blood next time."

"Then we'll find the rest of the Children before that happens. We need to keep at it, continue breaking down the power structure until the foundation's weak."

Gaerwen trails a finger down the side of his face. Her smile is small, but still strong. "My thoughts exactly."

* * *

Later on, the crew returns, and Zenith and Gaerwen have gone their separate ways until the ship grows quiet again. Down in the lower levels, Zenith and Tharan accidentally bump into one another due to being distracted: Zenith with his lingering memories of Gaerwen and Tharan with the mysterious smelly canister once again.

"Watch where you're going."

"Apologies, Zenith," Tharan offers, "this damned device simply refuses all science, logic, and my attempts—" the scientist trails off suddenly, and grows quiet. It's strange and surprising given Tharan's talkative nature. His brows purse, if only for a moment, and his eyes widen.

He clears his throat. "Anyways, it's highly complicated, _very_ scientific, _very_ important, I'll take my leave of you," Tharan allows himself a half-amused, half-intrigued, all knowing smirk to spread across his face. "Oh, also, do have a _pleasant_ evening, Zenith."

Tharan knows the semblance of a pleased, fulfilled man, and as he thinks back, he's seen the look of a satisfied woman for some time. He knows the scent of Gaerwen's beauty products, and he also knows that Zenith isn't the sort to use heavily floral scented products.

_Stars, how couldn't I see it before?_

Distracted by science.


	24. Chapter 24

**Someone To Fight For**

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

The Impossible Wedding

Gaerwen ignites her light saber and charges into the fray. With the Force she flings a large chunk of solid metal into the air and it slams into the Sith agent, knocking him squarely into the head. Once she checks to make sure he's dead, she runs over to where Zenith leans against the solid durasteel wall, clutching at his bleeding chest.

She kneels down and gently pushes his hand away and places her palm over the wound, pressing into the scorched leather armor, bloodying her hand as it begins to glow softly.

"Are you feeling light-headed? I know it feels weird at first, but, try not to look at it—"

He ignores her question, winces, and closes his eyes. "Did you kill that son of a bitch?"

Gaerwen nods solemnly. If he's able to snarl out a curse then she knows it isn't all that bad. She nods and presses harder now that he's adjusting to the Force mend. It's a solid, clean shot that barely missed an artery but punctured all the way through him.

He grunts coarsely and searches for her other hand, bringing it into his grip, squeezing tightly. "Cross that one off the list," he says through clenched teeth.

"Almost done." She smiles and then sighs. "I'm just glad we got here before he set off the charges."

"No kidding."

This Child of the Emperor, like its brothers and sisters, had been activated by an external hand. Like the others, this one intended to kill itself and harm civilians nearby by setting off underground explosives, thus causing a massive foundation collapse.

"You alright?"

"Just some minor scrapes and bruises. He was sloppier with me. I'm not a stationary target."

"He caught me off guard, that's all."

"Yeah, yeah, just know that you look tough, but I'm better, and one of these days you're going to admit it."

"Pain is just a word."

It's somewhat of a bloody mess once she pulls her hand away. Gaerwen peers down at his chest, touches the healed patch of flesh tentatively, and offers him a small smile. "There. Good as new. We're still going to stop by the medcenter when we're back on the surface, just to be sure. You know I'm not as skilled as the other healers."

Gaerwen helps him up onto his feet, and he leans against her as they walk to the elevator shaft which will take them out of the underground bunker and back up to House Organa's surface.

"You know, I have the strangest sense of deja-vu." She pauses and looks to her side to see him smirking.

"Guess you've repaid that debt."

"Oh please," she rolls her eyes and sticks her tongue out, "I think the score's been settled plenty. I could drop you, how's that?"

He laughs, and eventually she joins him. When it dies down, Gaerwen glances toward him again and sighs thoughtfully. "In fact, I remember that day fondly. You know why?"

"I saved your life."

"Zenith, you've saved my life countless times, and that's because it was the first time I realized I wanted your strength by my side." She grins. "You pull your weight…_most_ of the time, at least."

"That's why you keep me around, huh?"

"Maybe." Her grin widens. "Maybe I just like you for your charms. Handsome man who takes out Imperials for me. Quite a mating call, if you ask me."

He rolls his eyes. Eventually, they're in the middle of the market area outside the palace. The marketplace is relatively quiet, with vendors just opening for the morning hours.

"It could have ended badly."

"Just glad we got there in time." The market bustles with life and the underground explosions could have been devastating. "We can't keep having close calls like that. I wish there were a way to covertly go about this kind of work."

He nods against her shoulder. They make it to the Organa medcenter and Gaerwen explains a diluted version of the situation to the nurse—there's no need to cause further panic about there having been a sleeper agent of the Emperor within Organa military. Thankfully it isn't busy inside of the medical facility either.

The nurse obliges without further questions, and takes Zenith by the arm carefully. "I'll take him back for a quick x-ray, wait out here, please."

Wendy nods and slumps down into one of the large chairs in the waiting area. She drums her fingers against the arm and closes her eyes. Adrenaline still runs through her, and she fidgets impatiently in the seat. Eventually she stands and paces, until finally deciding to calm herself by washing her hands in the nearby sink down the hall. After the bloodied water swirls down the drain, she looks up into the small mirror to see how her armor is torn and battered by their previous battles. There's a few specs of dirt on her face, which she wipes off with her clean hands. Afterward, she feels physically better, but more emotionally unsettled.

Something about the entire ordeal makes her anxious and disconcerted—in a different way than before with other Children. Something's different, but she can't put a finger on what it is, and it frustrates her.

A half an hour passes, and Zenith returns back to the front of the medcenter alone, rubbing the area of his chest where the blaster shot pierced through.

"Just some bruised ribs from the blunt force. Said you healed it up for the most part. Shot didn't bounce around inside, at least."

Gaerwen smiles and nods. They head out of the medcenter back into the market area that is now bustling with activity. Diplomats of House Organa are dressed in fine, flowing robes as they make their way to and from various house embassies while lower class citizens of Alderaan do their daily shopping.

"Ship won't be back in port until tomorrow afternoon. Tharan's conference is today."

"Can't believe you let him borrow the ship."

"He asked nicely; Holiday's looking after it." She shrugs. "So we've some time on our hands. What do you feel up for?"

He runs his gloved hand over his face, mirrors her shrug, and he glances over to the unoccupied training area down the road.

"Need to practice—"

"Oh _no_, I don't think so." She gently takes his wrist and guides him further into the market. "That's your idea, but it automatically loses because you need to rest for the most part."

They stop before a produce vendor that has a wide variety of colorful foreign and domestic fruits and vegetables.

"I've always wanted to have a picnic on Alderaan. Seems like the most picturesque place to have one."

"Amazing how you go from being a Jedi who's hunting down Sith to a tourist so quickly."

"Well I'm not going to sit around entirely out there. If you really feel it's necessary to train, we can spar once we're out there. But _only_ if you're feeling better."

He nods, and their attention turns to talking to the farmer as they pick out various items for their lunch. They choose grapes, a stick of cheese, a loaf of bread, and zherries. Afterward, they head out into the nearby forest in search of a place to settle down and relax away from public eyes.

* * *

After finishing their picnic, they lay together, sprawled out on top of the grass in a nearby secluded portion of the Juran Mountain ranges' forested foothills by a small waterfall. Their satchels are piled next to their weapons, in addition to Gaerwen's boots, socks, and gloves, and only Zenith's gloves. Her hand loosely holds Zenith's as she stares up at the open canvas of evergreen tree branches, blue sky, and stray sunlight that peers through the forest canopy and clouds above.

They listen to the forest and the rush of water over the rocky riverbed. Occasionally, she turns her head to the side to look at him, to try to determine what he himself is looking at in particular, and whenever she's caught, she quickly turns her head away, flushes, and bites her lip. Gaerwen wonders what he's thinking since he has a chance to enjoy the natural peace they so often move through but do not see on their excursions onto various planets. Alderaan is certainly more relaxing when compared to other Core Worlds at this time.

_The war hasn't returned here yet._

Upon thinking of the war, she immediately regrets it and closes her eyes. The unsettling feelings return, and they creep from the shadows, from the recesses of her mind, and dare to ruin the good atmosphere.

"You mind letting up a bit?"

Gaerwen blinks, glances to Zenith, then their joined hands, and she loosens her grip. "Sorry."

She decides to change her position by laying her head against his thigh, laying perpendicular to him. His hand moves absentmindedly through her splayed halo of red hair on his abdomen.

This time her thoughts wander away from sleeper agents and Sith and Imperial troopers and violence to lighter subjects. She finds her place within the forest environment and taps into her connection with the Force. The breeze moves over the leaves and between stray twigs, never trapped, and the river, though she has not stepped into the water, feels cool and refreshing through the Force. The sunlight on her skin is warm. Birdsong fills their ears.

Despite having seldom an opportunity to immerse herself into nature, she hasn't really forgotten such tranquility; instead, she's simply let herself focus too much on the cold steel and sharp edges of starships and the emptiness of dark space.

"When I was a little girl, my parents would sometimes arrange for me to see my cousin, Billie, on Coruscant before I had entered the academy. We would go to one of the few gardens left. It wasn't often, and it happened maybe once every few years. We'd lay like this for awhile, and then she'd finally break the silence—she really didn't like silence—and I'd listen to her talk and talk and talk about all the things she wanted to do when she grew up. How she wanted to be a hero like Garza and Malcom and maybe join one of the big famous squads like Havoc.

"Sometimes, though, I'd corner her into talking about something different, something she wasn't as nearly enthusiastic about, and I'd be the one doing all the talking."

"Such as?" His hand moves away from her hair to find her own.

"I don't know," Gaerwen shrugs and digs her toes into the grass. "Stupid things kids daydream about, I guess. I don't really remember," she lies.

"Knowing you, you probably didn't think it was stupid at the time and you probably still don't."

She shakes her head and tries not to laugh; she isn't sure if she should be happy that he knows her well enough to spot her lies or be disappointed because now she has to admit the truth.

"I…They're kind of, well, impossible things, given circumstances. And they aren't bad circumstances, really, they just make certain whimsical fantasies, well, just that, fantasies."

"Knowing _you_, you don't really believe that."

_Damn_.

"Well believing in something that can't happen is just foolish."

"Depends on what exactly you're believing in."

"Well… like I said, we would joke around about, you know, _us_, ourselves, in the future. What we'd look like. Who we'd be. I cared about the details, Billie cared about the bigger picture."

Gaerwen pauses, clearly a sign of hesitation, and Zenith squeezes her hand to remind her that he's still waiting for an answer.

"I…I brought up weddings one time when we were a little older. I didn't really understand the fact that Jedi didn't often have formal weddings, let alone get into relationships that intimate." Wendy swallows hard and lets go of his hand in order to rest it on her stomach. "Honestly, looking back, it's really quite ridiculous because I had it all planned out before even talking to her about it. I didn't know much about typical traditions—I had nothing to base those off of—but I knew that given how important of an event it was, you had to dress well. So I told Billie exactly how I wanted my clothes. Something elegant but modest. A flower in my hair. Nothing extremely fancy. But, you know, like I said, it's an impossible idea."

"That doesn't sound like you. Impossible isn't a concept you understand."

"Eventually everyone learns that some things can never happen."

The trees above them rustle loudly, filling the following silence that falls between them. The birds settled in the trees above them end their song for now.

"Should have had _you_ get the x-ray."

Gaerwen sits up and looks down at him, pursing her brows. "I don't follow?"

"You're not acting like yourself." He follows suit and sits up in order to touch her head, as if he's search for a bump on her skull. "Probably have a concussion."

She rolls her eyes. "I'm serious. I'm acknowledging that it couldn't happen."

"So back up that statement with an actual explanation."

She sighs and shakes her head. "Because I'm a Jedi. Jedi don't marry. I'm already a hypocrite—"

"Far from a hypocrite. Your parents clearly married. Their friend Rina married. It's something else. Next reason. An _actual_ one."

Gaerwen glances back to him, to her hands in her lap, to the nearby waterfall, then back to him. "I…Because I'm… I don't know! Maybe I'm just…" she trails off, and shrugs.

"Don't dance around it, just say it."

"Okay, fine," she huffs, "I wasn't sure if you would ever want to get married."

"Why would you think that?"

"Because, to be frank with you, I…I just thought maybe you never saw that in your future. You're focused with Balmorra, and I understand that, really, I do, and I figured there's all this other stuff, whether it's politics or the war and people needing either of us, I didn't know if you believed it to be possible or the right direction for this relationship, let alone if you thought about it." She frowns. "So answer me then, did you ever think about it, Zenith? About getting married? Have you ever stopped and thought about that?"

"I have, though not with details." She blinks and stares at him; that wasn't her expected response. "Tharan suggested it in passing. After I returned from Balmorra, most recently."

Gaerwen gapes and raises a brow. "Are you telling me that he knows?" He nods, and she blushes out of second-hand embarrassment. "Oh stars, for how long? Who else knows? Please don't say _everyone_—"

"Said he's only known for a few weeks. As far as I know, only him."

"How did he bring that up to you? What did he exactly say?"

"Passed by in the crew decks. Asked if I'd 'Asked you yet.' Wanted to know what he was getting at, and he confessed. Said 'Life's short,' and it got me thinking about it." His hand moves over the side of her face to cup her cheek. "Is that what you want, Gaerwen? To marry me?"

"Yes," she says it eagerly, with a growing smile, "yes, Zenith. I don't know how, or when, or by whom, but I—stars, that's what I was dancing around." She laughs bashfully, "After I realized just how much I loved you, well, I finally had a person to… to fantasize about, however impossible it seemed." Her smile turns into a grin. "In my daydreams you look absolutely dashing in formal clothes. A nice suit—you always clean up well."

Gaerwen's never seen him blush before—at least _this_ furiously— and it's surprising enough to make her giggle. "Not that I don't like the rugged, armored look, because believe me, I _do_, but like I said, details."

She moves to sit directly beside him, and the wind picks up loose strands of her auburn hair. A small, yellow and black butterfly lands on the hand resting in her lap. Carefully she lifts it and inspects the tiny insect.

"Tharan's absolutely right. Life's short. Even though I healed you earlier today…well, I always get worried. Life's so precious, worth cherishing, worth sharing. We've been through so much, and there's still plenty to deal with. I-I don't think I could have done any of this without you, and I don't want to ever do any of it alone." The butterfly flies off, and she watches it flutter away from her, then glances back to Zenith.

He's not a poetic man, he never had any illusions about being one, and because he can't tell her, he shows her. He leans forward and captures her soft lips, gently touches the exposed skin of her collarbone, and they fall back against the grass again, laughing and grinning. Still, despite showing her, Zenith wants to tell her how he sees the sky in her eyes, how he believes in her, how she's the only star in his night sky, how every day he thanks whatever force in the galaxy for bringing them together amidst the darkest days of his life, and how she taught him that he could be more than his past, more than a vessel for violence and vengeance.

"We're going to have to hunt down a judge of some sort back in House Organa, aren't we…"


	25. Chapter 25

**Someone To Fight For**

**Chapter Twenty-Five**

"Wendy, we picked up two packages for you from Coruscant while you and Zenith were on Alderaan. Were you expecting something?"

Zenith parts from her after sharing one last secret glance, and he leaves the kitchen area to go to the crew quarters. Wendy comes to sit at the table across from Lt. Iresso and Nadia. "Yes," she explains as she starts to carefully undo the packaging of the large, cube shaped one, "they're from a colleague who works in the the Jedi Archives. In addition to holocrons," she unravels the item inside the package to reveal one medium sized pot out of several, "there are physical artifacts stored there. Like this piece of pottery for example."

"Art collecting, master?" Nadia smiles and leans closer to inspect the finer details of the black and white geometric bowl.

"No, not exactly. I have a little project for you." Wendy gestures to the more smaller, rectangular package. "That one's for you."

Her padawan raises a brow and smiles tentatively as she begins to open the parcel. Inside, she finds several large, dusty books with various spine widths and in varying degrees of condition. Upon opening one, she coughs hoarsely at the level of book dust inside.

"I had no idea books like this were still around." Iresso adds. "Seems everything's been downloaded onto servers."

"Well it's from a museum. They're rather archaic, so be careful with them. For this project, I want you to do some light reading—"

"This is _light_ reading?" Iresso laughs.

"Its a small collection of both primary and secondary sources on pottery and crafting. Essentially, I want you to read up on two cultural groups who made pottery: Sarkhai and Twi'lek ceramics."

"Isn't this a little…uhm, unnecessary, given the current state of the galaxy? Shouldn't I be practicing lightsaber techniques, not studying artwork?"

"Pottery is more than just art. Like everything else, it has purpose and emotional and practical value. Our ancestors made these items for a reason, at a specific point in their evolutionary timeline. Every settled culture has partaken in creating pottery. That's quite significant, when you think about it. It's one cultural and artistic thread that links every species across the galaxy together. Why should a war stop you from learning about culture, history, or science? I think it's as important as learning lightsaber forms or controlling the Force." Gaerwen stands from her chair, prepares herself a glass of water from the sink, and shrugs. "I think you'll be happily surprised to find out that there's more to it than just aesthetic charm. When you're finished studying up on the topic, we'll move to part two of this lesson."

Nadia still appears skeptical, and perhaps disappointed. "Which is?"

"Well, we'll travel to Sarkhai when we have some free time—those books will take you a little while—so it'll be a few months from now. We'll gather some clay, and we'll try to replicate the pottery using ancient designs and only tools that would have been available to them at the time. Like I said, it's not as simple as it sounds. One of my masters from my youth did this exercise with me, and trust me, it's harder than it sounds." Wendy heads for the hall to return to her quarters, but quips with a grin, "Iresso, if you're interested, you're free to join in on this lesson."

He shares her grin and leans back in his chair. "I think I'll let you and Nadia stick to the scholarly work."


	26. Chapter 26

**Someone To Fight For**

**Chapter Twenty-Six**

"Get the reading and I'll watch for sandpeople," Zenith says as he sits down against one of the large boulders next to his rifle, props his hands behind his head, beneath his lekku, and fixes his eyes on the wide, empty landscape of sand, sand, and more sand. Behind him, he hears Gaerwen settle against the sand.

"You know, if I had known you would have been disinterested in this, I would have brought along Tharan. I imagine he would have appreciated the geologic and meteorological science behind Tatooine's creation…" she trails off, but then adds, "or maybe that nice geologist from Makeb."

Zenith rolls his eyes and drums his fingers against the barrel of his rifle. Her words ring partially true; surveying the fissures for meteor pieces isn't interesting to him. He'll never say that he's bored aloud, not to her. Their excursion across the Jundland Wastes has been anything but thrilling and exciting—not that he needs that constantly in his life—but it's been relatively uneventful, and that makes him suspicious.

"Wow! I found it. You really ought to see this, it's so huge! Definitely extraterrestrial, maybe if I just zoom in a bit…" he hears the faint crumbling of rocks, then a high pitched scream, more crumbling, and he sits up immediately to move to the cliff's fractured edge.

Zenith finds her not knelt by the edge, but what appears to be a meter or so down the side, dangling from a protruding ledge. Her eyes are wide as she panics, struggles to hold on as her fingers start to slip.

"Gaerwen! _Gaerwen_, you need to calm down, breathe for a moment—"

"Zenith, this is probably a horrible, horrible time to tell you that I'm…" she glances over her shoulder and whatever color remained in her face fades, "I'm really, really, really, really, really, really, scared of heights!"

He leans over the edge after settling against the solid, secure slab of rock. He extends his hand, using a raised notch in the rock as some form of leverage. Gaerwen looks up and takes his hand. Immediately, Zenith lurches forward and he digs his knee into the rock to support himself, then carefully starts to tug her upwards with both hands. When she's dangling freely, with only his grip holding her, she swings her legs erratically as she desperately tries to find solid footing to push off of as well. At one point, her foot slips again, and she slips somewhat in his grip. Her eyes fall downward, and she shrieks again.

Zenith holds onto her tighter. "Look at me, Gaerwen," he grunts, "_trust_ me."

Her eyes flash upwards again, and though she continues to writhe, he manages to raise her up far enough that she can pull herself onto the ledge with his additional support. When they're both back on solid, sturdy, sandy ground, his body feels sorely numb, and Gaerwen continues to cling to him as she hyperventilates. Zenith sits up carefully, groans again as his back protests, and helps her into an upright position.

"Next time, try not to let curiosity kill you."

He knows that's what she needs to hear, one of his sarcastic comments to lighten the mood, and Gaerwen laughs shakily.

"Never a dull moment, right?"

Zenith smirks. "No, not around you."


	27. Chapter 27

**Someone To Fight For**

**Chapter Twenty-Seven**

Gaerwen wakes with a jolt from her sleep after having a particularly vivid nightmare. After she runs her hands over her tired eyes to rub the residual pain away, she stumbles out of her bed sheets, perhaps too quickly, because she immediately feels dizzy and nauseous upon standing straight. She covers her mouth, stifling a gag, and she races to her sink in order to throw up. After she stops hurling and coughing up her light dinner, she washes her mouth and face with cool water. For a brief moment she's happy Zenith isn't with her, else she would have unpleasantly awoken him. She stares at her reflection in the mirror for several long minutes, until she pushes off the sides of her sink, grabs the blanket off of her bed, and goes to check on the foreign artifact on her ship.

There's something horribly unsettling in the Force as she walks out of her quarters—it's nothing new after having it around her for the past week as they fly back to Coruscant. Still, it manages to leave her disconcerted and anxious. The halls of her ship, her _home_, and her sanctuary have been knowingly tainted by a foreign presence: the Seeds of Rage.

It's the middle of the evening, and she's dressed in her cream nightgown with a blanket tightly wrapped around her. Despite already knowing the source of this powerful disturbance, Gaerwen seeks it out and finds it locked away tightly in the cargo bay as expected. The Dark Side radiates from the crate its kept in, and it nearly suffocates her with its darkness. Gaerwen's strength and dexterity help her assuage the artifact's manipulation. Because of her resilience and willpower, she only suffers from symptoms of this Dark Side presence.

The other members of her crew did not fully understand the gravity of this situation, and thus protested to being forced off of the ship and, in their own terms, _abandoned_ on war-torn Corellia for a short period of time as Gaerwen and Zenith deliver the package to the Jedi Master on Coruscant. Having the seeds exposed to such a large crew was dangerous enough when there were only one or two fragments on board. Now, with all four pieces, it's too risky and rather unpredictable—it's not something she wants to gamble with.

Zenith refused to leave and wait with the others on Corellia, and this was expected as well. While Gaerwen understood and appreciated the sentiment, they nonetheless argued over the predicament until finally Gaerwen reluctantly conceded to allowing him to travel with her, regardless of the risks. However, she laid out one primary caveat: they needed to stay as far away from one another as possible.

_"I don't know what this artifact is capable of. I don't know if it will affect you or I more than the other, or if it will affect us equally. Either way, we have to remain on opposite ends of the ship at all times. That's _not_ negotiable."_

Though Zenith had nodded and didn't protest the circumstances of their temporary living arrangement, they both aren't comfortable with the idea even now—not because they miss one another, but because their precautions could be used against them given enough power. It is a necessary requirement if they wish to see this mission through.

They have a schedule that opposes one another: when either of them takes dinner, the other watches guard on the bridge, when either of them cleans up for the day, the other spends time elsewhere on the ship, and so on and so forth. It's as if they're similar poles of a magnet, purposefully deflecting the other (though, if she wants to extend the metaphor beyond this situation, she would propose they are the exact opposite: two poles constantly seeking the other out). It hasn't been easy the past week, but it's necessary.

Miasma hangs in the air like a plague—and she can sense it in both the Force and with her five senses. Her skin is clammy, the air is humid and arid. Her mouth is dry, and she constantly feels parched. There's a slight ringing in her ears—if she isn't careful, she worries it'll drive her mad. Her eyes feel heavy, as if the cursed artifact is waiting for her to slip up. Even through physical and mental dexterity, the Seeds are powerful enough to blur her vision and paint the world in red hues and shadows. Tenseness settles in her shoulders, her breathing is erratic and shallow, sporadic pain radiates from the base of her neck, and she feels her heart race in her chest.

Neither of them can sit still for long, and it takes extra focus to avoid one another. Stray thoughts whisper traitorous thoughts—_go to him, release yourself from inhibitions, revel in your desire, meld your body and mind with him_—and those are the most innocuous of them. The most disturbing and horrifying thoughts consist of flashes of violence and malevolence against Zenith, spawn from foreign suspicion and the present worries that she herself could very well be an inactive agent of the Emperor. These sensations—of unchecked passion and lust to vivid partaking in physical harm—are enough to set her on edge and torment her waking and sleeping consciousness.

Now, standing before the crate in the middle of the evening, the physical reaction is overwhelming and all encompassing. A phantom force drew her in from her uncomfortable slumber, and now that phantom force teases and beckons for her physical and mental submission. She sees the tendrils of shadows in her mind as she closes her eyes, feels a ghostly hand on her shoulder, trailing lower over smooth cloth and then the bare flesh of her forearm, pushing the strap of her nightgown down. The blanket falls to the floor of the cargo hold beneath her feet. Gaerwen inhales sharply when the sensation falls to the top of her exposed breast, then lower, and there's no semblance of gentleness or concern for her comfort. She bites her lip and tries to stifle a moan—lusty fantasies cross her thoughts, of tangled limbs, gentleness and roughness, his calloused hands on her hips, his pants in her ears—

Gaerwen's willpower falters, stumbles, but manages to pull together when sharp teeth bite into her ear and she realizes that what she believed to be phantom sensations are actually the real, living movements of Zenith behind her. This realization does not give her comfort, nor does it set her mind at ease—instead, her eyes widen and she struggles, only to have her wrists forcefully pulled behind her, held tightly by one of his strong hands. She cries out at the sudden spike of pain and discomfort, but her possessed husband takes no mind, does not pause to measure her, but instead uses his free hand to pinch and pull at her semi-clothed chest, slides his hand upwards, and squeezes her neck, gripping mercilessly. Suddenly the images of pleasure tear way into the very real, very potent possibility that these are not actions driven by lust, but actions forced by wrath.

"Do you know what happens to collaborators, Gaerwen?"

"Zenith—" she groans partially, as his hand clamps down tighter.

"Did you think I wouldn't find out?" He roars in her ear. Gaerwen freezes—he hasn't yelled in her presence since the matter with Balmorran collaborators on the eve of his campaign in this same cargo hold. "Did you think you could get away with it?"

At first, Gaerwen is too terrified to even struggle against him; she feels his presence in the Force, tainted with darkness so inflamed and coarse it sears her mind, as if Zenith himself is using the Force to hurt her additionally. Her lungs tighten, shrivel—she can barely gasp for breath, and her vision spins, her head feels hot and heavy.

When Gaerwen's at the brink of passing out, Zenith releases her and throws her aside roughly, causing her to crash into other stacked crates. She lays against the cool metal of the cargo hold, panting and coughing as she tries to quench her natural need for more air. Her loose hair curtains either side of her face, and in this moment, Gaerwen loses it. She can barely lift her head, barely think, barely see past her hazed vision as half-cough, half-sobs rattle her. More boxes crash beside her, some falling on top of her, and others spilling their contents of ration and med packs onto the floor.

Gaerwen pushes off the ground with shaky, weakened arms that can barely hold her up, and the small boxes that fell onto her move off. When she manages a bent over position, Zenith immediately slams his boot-clad foot into the small of her back, pressing her downward.

"All this time, all this time, lies, lies, lies. How long have you known? How long have you been working for the Sith?" He grinds his boot into her, but when this fails to elicit a response other than silence and heavy breathing, he then reaches forward and yanks her head upward by grabbing her hair. Immediately Gaerwen cries out, and for the first time since being safely on Corellia, their eyes meet in this horrible position.

The Seeds of Rage have played a heavy toll on him physically, as evident by the dark, black circles under his eyes that seem to mute the radiant violet color of them, almost dying them burgundy. He seems paler, more ashen, but the faint light of the cargo hold makes it hard to distinguish. The Seeds of Rage have tapped into his history of distrust, paranoia, and anxiety—this isn't her Zenith, but instead an angry, confused man, freshly liberated by his own bloodied and bruised hand. These are the actions of a crazed member of the Resistance, perhaps a version of what may have become of Zenith had Gaerwen not provided counsel early on. This is Zenith as both judge, jury, and executioner.

"I put my life in your hands, and all this time, all this time you've been with me, lying dormant, waiting to strike. Your master is so sharp he cut himself—this is the endgame, isn't it?" Zenith removes his boot from her back and pulls her upward by her hair. "What's it all for? What's the mission? To kill the Chancellor? To feed misinformation? To earn the admiration of the Republic and then stab it in the back?"

"Please, Zenith—" she rasps, only to be stopped by his hand moving out of her hair, back to her neck.

"Don't you _dare_. All those times you let Imperials go, all those times you told me to show mercy—what was that? _Collaborating_. I should have seen it all along."

His hand tightens again, and by her own revived survival instincts, she pushes against him, strong at first, until once again air escapes her and she stops, conserving as much energy as possible.

"And there you were. Concerned and compassionate Gaerwen Aurell, always there to make me second guess my instinct, always there to make me show mercy to those who don't deserve the air they breathe—like _you_. Play the innocent, humble Jedi—a good enough distraction in the beginning, make him blinded from the bigger game."

"Stop!—Please—I-"

"That's what it is. Love is _blindness_. And I slip up, I lose focus, and it lets murderers and collaborators walk free."

Gaerwen feels it this time, feels herself step to the brink of the abyss, and this time she knows it's looked deeply into her: it knows her weakness. It has studied her well enough to know how to make her unable to fight back: by choking her, Gaerwen can hardly say more than raspy, short, sporadic words that have no power. This entity, this devil of the Dark Side knows that she uses her voice to speak out, to be his voice of reason, to reconcile the violence in his heart in order to bring out the good in him. Now, she is physically speechless: a cruel blow.

"Worst of all, I loved you." His voice shakes, lowers to a bitter whisper, and for a moment, Gaerwen almost believes the cruel masquerade, and that's the final blow to her spirit. "I trusted you."

Something screams for her to fight back, and as natural of an instinct as it is, Gaerwen can't do it, can't muster her strength to call upon the Force—even so, she won't give into this living nightmare, refuses to concede to the violent visions of her troubled sleep.

"Do you know what happens to collaborators? They don't rot in a cell. They die."

Zenith lets her go, and she slumps to the ground like one of her ragdolls from her youth. Her red hair is ruffled and splayed out like a halo against the solid metal. Black and purple splotches rise to the surface of her neck. In the last moments of her fading vision and hearing, she sees Zenith collapse to the floor beside her, clutching his head and roaring—and she sadly knows her Zenith, the one she loves and trusts with her body, mind, and spirit, has finally been released from his prison after banging on the bars like a caged animal.

With her last burst of energy, Gaerwen extends her open palm, desperately hoping he'll take it. Instead, she slips from the cliff's edge, and she falls into the abyss, without ever knowing.


	28. Chapter 28

**Someone To Fight For**

**Chapter Twenty-Eight**

It's deja-vu almost all over again as Gaerwen stirs back to consciousness. The heart monitor beeps slowly and evenly at her bedside, and it's the first thing she hears upon coming to. When her eyes open partially, she sees a familiar Mirialan standing over her, fiddling with a datapad.

"Oh, Master Aurell," Attros Finn smiles warmly and turns his attention to her. "I'm glad to see you're awake!"

Coruscant then. At least this time, to her relief, she knows where she is and there's no need to struggle against the medical procedures currently in place. As her body and mind sluggishly stir back to life again, Gaerwen tries to sit up, but Attros ends up helping her by propping up the pillow.

"We didn't expect you to come to so quickly. You really are a fighter, just like Master Yuon."

Gaerwen manages a weak half-smile that's mostly faked. The wound produced by Master Yuon's absence still seems so fresh despite the several passed months. Attros Finn's intentions are good, but they aren't necessarily the right medicine at this time. It's with resigned indifference that she wearily thanks her good friend for his time and care.

"You need to rest. Your protocol droid delivered the crate to Master Gend. It's currently locked away in quarantine," he frowns, "for good reason, clearly. At least the Dreadmasters will have one less tool in their arsenal."

"Please send Master Gend my regards and my apologies. I meant to deliver it personally."

"He came here earlier this morning. He… he was very shocked by what happened. He's very gracious for your work, your near sacrifice, and he's very happy to see that you're on the path to recovery."

Gaerwen nods, offers another smile again, and she wonders how many more faked ones she has stocked up in her reserves. He hands her a glass of water a few minutes later and she greedily gulps the cool liquid down, however painful it turns out to be as a result of her brutally injured throat and neck.

"Thank you," she says, handing the emptied glass to Attros.

The fellow Jedi isn't blind. They have been good colleagues for the past several months, occasionally keeping in touch whenever possible over HoloNET messages, and Attros Finn knows when Wendy Aurell is putting on a display. He gives her credit for trying to be strong, and he can only imagine the degree of physical trauma that caused this a few days ago. The Twi'lek who brought her here to the Senate medcenter had been particularly distressed and almost overly impatient with him, which alone had been enough to raise alarm signals.

"Attros, would it be possible to perhaps move somewhere more comfortable? I'm… I'm feeling a bit claustrophobic by all of these machines and wires in me."

"Of course, if you're sure, Wendy, there's a room for patients to relax when they're not in their rooms."

Attros Finn removes the inhibiting medical equipment from her and carefully helps her slip on some socks with rubber spots on the soles, then helps her out of the med-bed. Once she's on her feet, she quietly thanks him again and stands on her own, partially hunched over at first. Thankfully her head feels steady, without any residual dizziness, when she stands up straight and starts to slowly follow him out of the room. He guides her to an open area where patients can look outside at the Coruscanti skyline from a large window. To Gaerwen's surprise, it's the middle of the evening on Coruscant and there are no other patients here at this time.

"Thank you Attros," she says again once they stand before the large window; it seems like it's the only few words she can mumble at this time without cracking entirely.

He nods, and as he leaves, he turns on the lights inside of this room for her. When she blinks, she sees her faded reflection in the window. The blatantly ugly bruises stand out immediately, and she closes her eyes, trying desperately to dispel the image—it's hard enough staying composed.

"Can you leave them off, please?" She asks hesitantly.

"Oh…well, of course. Okay. If you need anything, please, don't hesitate to call out. I'll be just down the hall checking on a few other patients."

Gaerwen doesn't reply because she can't find her voice, can't stop herself from releasing the low, traitorous sob. She shudders and finds it necessary to wrap her arms shakily around herself in order to keep herself steady. When she opens her eyes, her reflection stares at her once again, mirroring her every moment: hand covering her mouth, wet cheeks, and uncertainty behind her eyes.

She wishes she hadn't woken up, however selfish that sentiment is—she isn't ready to have the weight of the world and more placed back onto her shoulders. She doesn't want to be afraid, she knows there's no need to be scared now. Yet, nonetheless, Gaerwen tenses upon hearing footsteps enter the room and feeling his Force signature.

* * *

_Sometimes he forgets just how young Gaerwen is, and as they both run back to House Organa, with her tugging his hand and laughing, he feels as if he's significantly younger too. _

_It doesn't surprise him how she manages to find the only judge in all of House Organa's plaza by happenstance. It isn't luck, but the timing of their run in is perfect, and it almost makes him believe in some higher power continuing to push them together. Like so many of his experiences with Gaerwen, this too is a first, one that they share. Zenith certainly never believed this day would ever happen—he never fantasized about marrying someone in the middle of a noble family's plaza, in the middle of a marketplace by a judge he doesn't know, with so many strangers looking on at the spontaneous ceremony. _

_Gaerwen's charmed them all with her wide sunshine smiles, and one of the owners of a nearby flower vendor offers her a colorful bouquet. It only makes her smile reach her blue eyes, and he knows this is the happiest she's been since before the events of Corellia. So much has happened—from grief and stress caused by their duties to the galaxy, from separation caused by his work as opposition leader, and now their new job going after the remaining Children. Yet every day, he wakes up with her strength by his side. It's true, he's a happier man because of her. _

_It isn't a traditional wedding ceremony, not by any stretch of the imagination. There are pieces of grass in her hair, but they only seem to add to her natural beauty. She's so in touch with the Force, so in tune with her surroundings, and that's admirable and fascinating, even if he doesn't entirely understand it. His coat is still singed and bloodied by their earlier confrontation with the Child. Suddenly he's more thankful than ever to have gotten to the Child in time—none of this would have happened if not for their success. Her "impossible wedding" is now a very real, very possible wedding._

_The judge, a stockier man with a well-trimmed white beard and a bald head, recites the proper official words. Then, he instructs for them, one at a time, to recite the vows to one another after joining hands. Gaerwen goes first, and she's radiating with excitement; she means every word. She says every word clearly and eloquently: she isn't nervous at all, but her cheeks are as red as zherries. _

_When it comes time for Zenith to recite the standard vows, he truly knows and understands just how nervous he is—this is beyond public speaking, this is everything to her, everything to him, and he's never been this anxiety ridden before. There have been many situations that have set him on edge, many instances where he was worried about the upcoming fight against Imperials, but this is nothing of the sort. He tries to remember all of her pieces of advice for public speaking: "Speak slowly, evenly—say everything from the heart. That's how you give a speech that people will remember."_

_"I, Zenith, take you, Gaerwen Aurell, to be my beloved wife, to have and to hold, to honor, to treasure, to be at your side in sorrow and in joy, in the good times, and in the bad, and to love and cherish you always. I promise you this from my heart, for all the days of my life." He stares into her eyes and sees the sky, the stars, the sun and the moon—everything he's ever passed by in life. This is the future he wanted. This is the future he fought for. "Before these witnesses I vow to love you and care for you as long as we both shall live. I take you with all your faults and your strengths as I offer myself to you with my faults and strengths. I will help you when you need help, and I will turn to you when I need help. I choose you as the person with whom I will spend my life."_

_"By the power vested in me, I name you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."_

_He doesn't need to be told twice. Zenith leans forward, meets her half-way and kisses her. She wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him back with more fervor than ever before. Distantly the gathered crowd of Organa citizens claps and cheers, but he doesn't care about them—he has her, and that's all he ever needs. He gave up the view so he could dance with her._

* * *

The light pouring through the window is faint and poor at best, but it's enough for him to see her shadowed frame dressed in a pale blue medical gown. To his temporary relief, the room is empty besides her—he doesn't imagine he could do this with others watching.

At first Zenith's frozen in place, too uncharacteristically anxious to take a step forward and face his reckoning. He would rather take a grenade to the chest than face what's to come. Eventually, his feet move forward, however slow and uneven—it isn't bravery or courage that guides him, but remorse. Finally he comes to stand beside her, though a good several inches away.

Neither one says anything for several minutes, as if they're acclimating to the others' presence. This time, however, he knows it's cowardly to remain silent, but he also knows that he was the transgressor, and he refuses to overstep his bounds. Gaerwen isn't a fragile doll, he knows that very well, and he respects her too much to try anything beyond her wishes.

"You said to me 'Love is blindness.'"

Zenith blinks and looks at her reflection, and he's surprised to see her staring back at him through her mirror image. He frowns when his eyes fall upon the finger-sized bruises on her neck—his chest constricts, his hands tighten into fists, and perhaps if he weren't in her presence, he'd slam his fist against the window and yell out. He failed her; he promised to protect her, always, that first time she came to him in the cargo hold, barely holding together, ready to crumble in his arms. He intended to protect her, but he didn't understand the Seeds of Rage, didn't know what they could do. Thus, instead of protecting her from the unknown, he should have protected her from himself.

"'Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.'"

He presses his head against the solid window and painfully clenches his jaw.

"Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage."

Zenith turns to look at her directly, no longer content with a mirror image, however similar.

"I forgive you Zenith. I forgave you the moment you—"

"_Don't_. Don't…say it," he pauses, "please."

"Love is unconditional." She reaches up to rub her eyes, and finally Gaerwen turns to look at him. His heart stops, skips a beat, when she smiles, however weakly. "And I love you."

Zenith often finds himself stunned by her mercy, by her compassion, and by all the things he accused her of as a sign of collaborating with the Sith. How foolish, to think that such virtues could ever be malignant. Gaerwen moves towards him and wraps her arms around his torso, pressing herself tightly against his chest. It's enough of a sign for him to carefully return the gesture, and he holds onto her gently.

"I'm sorry." It needs to be said either way, however much she says she forgives him—it's the first step in forgiving himself. "I should have trusted your judgment."

They warm up one another, having been cold for so long, and when she pulls away, Gaerwen looks into his eyes. He wonders if she can see his demons vividly; it doesn't matter if she does, either way, because it's clear she trusts him regardless—she leans forward and places a kiss lightly at the corner of his mouth, tentative and careful. Perhaps in another setting, at another time, he'll return her gesture by kissing away the blotches on her neck, at least symbolically removing those memories.

Zenith can hear her whispering, though he isn't sure if it's verbally or perhaps through the Force.

_Love never fails._


	29. Chapter 29

**Someone To Fight For**

**Chapter Twenty-Nine**

It seems selfish to say that Gaerwen is happy that the rest of her crew is on Corellia. The storm's passed, and now she breathes easier upon wandering the walls of _The Defender_, which is once again her home and her sanctuary. They'll have the ship solely to themselves on the trip back to Corellia, and she hopes it. Immediately the first thing she wants after instructing the protocol droid is a cup of warm tea and something sweet.

Gaerwen isn't sure where Zenith ran off to—she lost him once they parted ways at the ship's bridge—but she worries he might be distant for several days. Though it pains her, she understands and will give him all the time he needs. However, as she takes her tray of steeping tea and a scone back to her quarters, she finds him standing outside her door, waiting patiently.

She tries to not sound so relieved and surprised. "I brought an extra cup," _just in case_, "it's just black tea. No sugar."

Zenith opens the door for her, and the tray is placed on top of the bed. They settle together on the sheets, and their shared silence is comfortable and not awkward. She offers to split the scone, but he declines. Once they finish one cup each, Gaerwen stifles a yawn and reaches behind to rub the lower half of her back. Even several days later, her body still aches as much as the first day she came to.

Zenith, always observant (and even moreso now), notices her grimaces and winces. He slides off the side of the bed and moves to her side, sitting down behind her, and gently places a hand over her wrist.

"Can I?"

"Yes, please." _Of course._

He pushes aside the hand on her back and starts to rub over the cloth of her dress.

She moves away temporarily. "Wait, hold on, it's easier without the fabric, let me—"

He stops her once again from lifting the dress over her shoulders. He leans closer to her this time, "Can I?"

Gaerwen raises a brow, but comes to understand the meaning behind his requests. "_Yes_, please."

The simple brown dress is removed, and she sits in front of him in only her breast binder and a pair of skin-tight shorts. When his hands finally touch her skin, Gaerwen sighs and leans forward, stretching her back and giving him better access to the lower half. His deft, calloused fingers apply enough pressure to be firm and yet remain gentle, especially as they glide over the patch of flesh at the base of her spine that bore the worst of the trauma.

"Tell me if it's too much."

"No, that's perfect. You can apply a little more pressure, in fact."

Zenith complies, pressing deeper into her skin, kneading with his fingers, and in turn she closes her eyes and lets herself relax. He massages her lower back until she sits up and stands, heading to her private fresher to fill up the bathtub. Afterward, she lights an incense that smells of sandalwood—she smiles to herself, she can't call it scheming, but it's very similar to it. They need time together, and since he's willing, she only wants to encourage a pleasant atmosphere.

"Bring in the tea, will you?" She calls out, and a few moments later Zenith enters, holding the tray and placing it onto the nearby counter by the low burning sticks.

As the tub fills with suds and warm water, Gaerwen reaches out to take his hand, guides him closer, and then starts to remove his light layers of clothing. He doesn't protest, but instead helps her without breaking her stare. Part of her finds that humorous—and he wins their spontaneous staring contest.

Once he's completely bereft of clothing, She closes the gap between them, and slides her hands down his firm back until they rest firmly on his rear. With a quick smirk she pinches him lightly, and he twitches against her, causing her to laugh loudly. Zenith purses his brows with determination now, and he follows suit and removes the rest of her clothes.

It's the first time they've come together like this since Alderaan. Gaerwen flushes, bites her lip, and runs her hands up his sharp sides to the muscles of his chest, lingering. When her hands rise to his shoulders, she smiles and beams when he returns the gesture, if only slightly.

Eventually, the tub finishes filling up and they settle together in the aromatic suds, with Gaerwen leaning back against him.

"Comfortable?"

He nods against her shoulder and his hands wrap around her waist, eliciting a tiny squeak. He tilts his head and presses soft kisses to the curve of her neck, over the healing, fading wounds, and Gaerwen closes her eyes and reaches up to lazily caress his cheek. As the moments pass by, Zenith's lips move over her skin with more need, and his hands hold her tighter.

"I'm not afraid of much," he says as quietly as his gruff voice will allow. She can hear how shaken he still is by the entire ordeal. "But when I saw you, I…"

He carries his remorse in both his voice and his arms, as if it's as tangible as her limp body after the ordeal. It's intense through their bond, and she touches her neck, hesitant at first—she's trying her best to not think about it—but then she nods. Perhaps they do need to talk about it.

"It was a Sith artifact produced by a powerful alchemist. Almost a physical manifestation of the Plague that wrecked my master and so many others." Gaerwen pauses as she moves forward and repositions herself so that she faces him, with her knees pulled up to her chest. "Were you conscious of what was happening?"

It's a hard question, but an important one nonetheless.

"Yes."

"Worse than Imperial torture."

"That _is_ Imperial torture. Nothing else compares. There's a difference between having pain inflicted upon yourself versus having to watch someone else go through it. Pain is just a word until it's happening to someone you care about."

Gaerwen easily empathizes with him. "I know. You feel helpless."

Zenith's brows narrow and he grinds his teeth. "Why didn't you fight back? With the Force, you could have—"

"No, I couldn't." She sighs and shrugs. "For two reasons. One, I used a lot of my own energy just to prevent myself from succumbing, and even then, it made me sick and tired. I couldn't sleep, couldn't keep food down. Two, I refused to give into the manipulation, even in defense of myself—because that's not how I do things. When Master Yuon was ill, I couldn't raise a hand against her—I wouldn't. And with you…I was frightened, mostly alarmed I won't deny that. It all happened so fast. But I knew you wouldn't stop fighting until you freed yourself."

"And…if I hadn't?"

"I don't know." She lowers her eyes. "I don't want to think about it. That's not what happened. In fact," she raises her voice, "Zenith, I don't need to think about it because it would never happen. You're stubborn enough, after all—and in this case it's a good thing."

By now the the incense has thoroughly burned, and the heavy, musky scent makes her head feel lighter, fuzzier—almost as if her thoughts slur together. Her plan hasn't worked out accordingly in its entirety—but the trip's young, and penance will come gradually. They won't have an opportunity like this, likely, in the long-term future, and Gaerwen intends to make the most use out of it.

"I'm only going to say one more thing about this, Zenith," she says as she sits up and moves to lay on top of him, carefully so as not to spill water over the tub's edge. His body is warm and pliant against hers, as he wraps his arm around her lower back, brushing his fingers through suds and over soft skin. "Even though I was hesitant about having you come along to Coruscant, I realize now that that's the only way it could have turned out. We do things together, even if it's difficult at times, and even if this can only remain private. We trust one another. I'm not going to let the other Jedi, the Sith, the Empire, the Emperor, _anyone_, fracture my relationship with you."

Wendy places her palms at the base of his lekku and ears as she bends forward and lays light kisses on his cheeks, nose, and forehead. His eyes fall shut, and he sighs against her.

* * *

After their bath, they return to her bed, dressed in fresh, comfortable clothes. Gaerwen has a stash of clothes that fit him well enough in her closet for situations such as these—sometimes the walk to the crews' quarters is too far and could raise questions by the crew.

"How long will it take to get back to Corellia?"

"A few days, maybe more."

"Hm. Would it be selfish to tell C2 to program a slower flight?" Gaerwen shrugs, and she leans over him with a wide grin. "Either way, I have you all to myself until we're literally forced to unlock the door to the ship because they're knocking too loudly."

"More like bang down the door."

"For once it's going to actually be our ship, our quarters," she licks her lips, "_our_ bed. No sneaking off in the middle of the morning…"

They hadn't partaken in a "wedding night" as a result of being contacted by Master Gend in regard to the Seeds of Rage, and their work had kept them rather busy—with Gaerwen helping Nadia in her history and archaeological studies in between planets and Zenith coordinating some of Balmorra's reconstruction work with ex-collaborators.

"No need to worry about Holiday catching us…" She laughs. "I think that's the best benefit to this entire ordeal. So we better use our time wisely."


	30. Chapter 30

**Someone To Fight For**

**Chapter Thirty**

Zenith wanders into the galley in the middle of the afternoon, having presumed the rest of the crew had gone on planet to Coruscant while the ship refueled. Instead, he finds the kitchen in a complete mess, utter chaos, with Wendy and Nadia in the middle of it. Their hands, lower arms, and clothes are covered in hardening dark gray clay. There's stray clay sediment all across the floor, in places he can't believe managed to get dirty. Both women are hard at work kneading and working the ground fine particles of clay with water. Somehow Wendy's managed to get blotches of clay on her face and in her hair. They're so consumed neither hears him enter.

"Oh!" Wendy says, startled upon looking up. She rubs her wrinkling nose onto her shoulder, as if she's trying to rub out a sudden itch. "Didn't hear you come in!"

Zenith raises a brow—the entire ordeal seems to be too much of a hassle for it to be a lesson in the long-run for Nadia.

"Shouldn't you work in Cedrax's lab?"

"He forbade us from going in there when he heard of this project." She laughs. "It's going to be a bit of a mess, well it's already become one… Did you want to help us? We could also use an extra pair of hands hand."

She stands from her chair and reaches out for his hand, finds it, and she tugs him to the third seat at the table. Her hand sticks to his palm, and the clay is cool to the touch, but it still manages to heat up him considerably.

"C'mon, roll up your sleeves and do some actual dirty work for a change." She grins when he rolls his eyes at her.

At first Zenith decides to help them just so that the work will be done faster and then the damn kitchen can get cleaned up again because otherwise it makes him uncomfortable.

"Take a scoop of the clay sediment and make a pile, yes, like that, then make a little bowl in the pile, kind of like a mini volcano, and then add the water…not too much though—_oh—_that's way too much."

"You think?" He sighs as he watches the rush of dirty water spill over the table's edge onto the floor and into his lap. So that's how the floor and their clothes became messy.

Wendy's trying hard not to laugh. "Trial and error."

He really does become a quick mess, and the clay smells strange, and it feels weird beneath and around his fingers. Zenith kneads the clay that roughens up quickly and becomes harder to squish within minutes. He adds water when necessary as it cracks. He listens absently to their conversation, mostly focusing on Wendy's half of it. He doesn't contribute to the conversation—something about discussing the historical significance of pottery by the Sarkhai people isn't his field of interest, but it makes Wendy excited, flush with the passion for knowledge, and she eagerly encourages Nadia to see the project as more than an art related one.

"You know Zenith," he looks up, catching her eyes, "anthropological research has been done to show that women who made pottery were actually significantly superior to males in upper body strength. Mostly due to repetitive motion."

"Not surprised. Impressive still."

"And pottery was crucial to sedentary living. Without those buff women making pots to store and cook food, agriculture wouldn't have developed in the same manner, and modern civilization as we know it would likely look different." Wendy grins. "So see, I told you Nadia. Making pottery will strengthen some muscles you didn't know you had. And here you thought you wouldn't get any combat training in this exercise."

* * *

The next person on their list of Sith hasn't yet revealed itself to the Jedi Council, and as they wait, Gaerwen officially calls for an extended bit of shore leave on Coruscant.

Zenith finds Wendy and Nadia once again in the kitchen, working on sculpted but unfinished pots: two small mugs.

"So basically what you want to do is polish the outside of the vessel, so that the paint will glide on as easily as possible," Gaerwen demonstrates by rubbing a dab of water onto her own example mug, waits a moment, and then begins to grind the flat, smooth rock against the mug's edge. "You have to be careful, though, you don't want to break the handle or drop it. The handle especially is really weak right now, so don't hold it from there."  
This time Zenith isn't interested in sticking around, so he sets up the machine to make caf as quickly as possible—before Wendy drags him into her literal sticky situation all over again.

"Wow, it's so smooth!"

"That's because the particles on the top surface are being evenly smoothed together—there's a lot of chemistry, too, and maybe Doctor Cedrax can explain it better than myself. Make sure you get the highs and lows…"

"But it's a lumpy mug, isn't it?" Nadia laughs sheepishly. "And rather small."

"It's your first attempt. I think you'll surprise yourself as we go forward…You want to smooth out as much as possible, see, right in there especially. You can be a bit assertive." Gaerwen pauses. Zenith pours the finished caf into an actual mug. "…And it might be lumpy and rough around the edges, but that doesn't make it any less beautiful."

Zenith's chest tightens. As he turns to leave, he manages to have absolutely no agility or litheness, and he stumbles over his own damn feet, causing the warm coffee spills over his shirt. He hears a chair screech backwards and then Wendy's beside him, tugging him out of the kitchen and abandoning the caf.

"Nadia, I'll be back in a moment. Need to make sure he hasn't gone and burned himself."

"Of course." Her padawan smiles.

Gaerwen drags him to the med-bay on the lower level, promptly removes his shirt, and checks the area for signs of scalding or redness. If anything, it stings somewhat, but it isn't anything painful.

"I don't set the machine for that high."

"Still, you ought to be careful."

She runs her fingers carefully over the patch of flesh, and he immediately feels the more powerful warmth of the Force radiating from her. Zenith hasn't often been healed by her, only once on Balmorra and then on Alderaan, and each time the process was unusual. The Force feels soft, warm, and as she splays her palm against his chest, he wonders if she's really healing him or perhaps caressing him.

"I'm not lumpy," he growls just over her lips, after leaning forward. "Rough, maybe…"

Wendy giggles. "Saw through me that well, huh?

"Convenient Jedi jargon with a thin veil of doubletalk? Yeah, I can read you like a book."

Wendy's hand wraps around his waist, and the additional sensations move with her. "Oh yeah? And now?"

He angles his head and kisses her.

* * *

The third time Zenith intends to walk into the kitchen, he's only coming to tell her that the Jedi Council has just sent over new coordinates and a heading. He stops in his tracks when he hears Wendy's voice.

"…I remember the first time I did this project, I also broke my first mug—dropped it as I was carrying it through the halls to take it outside for firing—smashed into a million pieces, and I just started to bawl my eyes out right then and there. I hated my pot a lot too, or at least I thought I did…Turns out my little mug managed to sneak it's way into my heart. And for a variety of reasons. I had spent a week working on it for several hours, growing frustrated and impatient with the clay. Master Kodori, my instructor at the time, found me sitting in the hall when he sought me out,…and there I was, holding my broken mug's pieces, and he knelt down beside me and taught me a very hard lesson that day that I'm going to try to explain to you.

"It's inevitable to become attached to something that you've spent time with—you worked this clay with your bare hands, learned how to work with it, and it trusted you to take care of it. We put our time and love into the vessel, however frustrating it sometimes makes us. But accidents happen—sometimes you can pick up the pieces and put it back together with some glue and patience and more love, of course."

Wendy pauses and her voice grows quieter. "You can't save everything, however, sometimes it smashes into too many pieces. Before we know it, we realize just how much we loved and cared about our pots—and we still do, because we mourn the loss. We miss them." She pauses again, "But the wonderful thing is that the love you possessed doesn't go away—it never does, because all you have to do is dig your fingers into the clay again and start the journey anew. You put your love into a new vessel. You don't ever forget about the fallen, but you move forward as best as you can, and realize that _yes_, you can love again."

When it grows quiet again, Zenith sucks in a breath to steady the dizziness in his head, and know he fully understands partially why Gaerwen was going to so much trouble—literally—to see this project through.

"When I broke the mug, it was a few months after my mother had passed." Zenith can hear the shakiness in her voice. "I thought I'd never move on. I thought everything I loved would just eventually break and there was no point to it all. But there is. There's merit to the phrase 'Better to love and have lost than never to have loved at all.'"

Nadia says, "Thank you, Wendy, I understand now. I needed to hear that."

He needed to hear it too, and he wouldn't be surprised if she can feel him through the Force—no, he takes it back, he knows she can sense him. This time, however, Zenith turns and walks away—he'll tell her later about the heading.

* * *

Later on in the evening, Zenith finds Gaerwen in the galley again, watching her water heat up for tea. She doesn't hear him enter, and so Zenith surprises her by tightly wrapping his arms around her from behind.

"I love you, Gaerwen."


	31. Chapter 31

**Someone To Fight For **

**Chapter Thirty-One**

Zenith isn't Force Sensitive, but he knows immediately that she's walking towards him as he leans forward against the railing which overlooks the main skyway on Coruscant. He can hear her boots clanking against the solid concrete amongst the commotion of a busy afternoon outside the speeder port. He can smell the lavender from her lotion and her shampoo as it carries on the wind. He stands up straight, pushes off the railing and turns to see her draped in a billowing brown cloak with the hood up. Whispy strands of her hair move freely over her face, and her expression is difficult to read.

When she comes to stand by him, she places her hands on the railing, grips them tightly, and doesn't say anything for several moments. He doesn't want to acknowledge the churning in his gut, but this isn't at all like her.

"You should have let me come with you."

Gaerwen turns her head, and the sunset hues brighten her otherwise dulled expression. "You're right, I should have."

Zenith narrows his brows. "Whatever it is, Gaerwen, I want the truth, however hard it is."

For a moment, she simply stares at him, absent of emotion, and then as if a dam's been broken, it returns to her features with first a blink, then surprise as her lips part, and she shakes her head. "Oh, Zenith, I'm sorry, I thought—nevermind, I'm just a little disoriented—absolutely overwhelmed."

"So you didn't contract something from the forest of Sarkhai?" He isn't sure if she's teasing him, or if she's decided to, of _all_ times, to be a cryptic Jedi, but he's well concerned something inside of her has snapped. The emotional whiplash isn't helping either—

"Zenith I should have brought you with me because I frankly would have loved to see your face, you should have seen Doc's, and of course he ran off to tell Rina, and I don't know if I should be screaming in terror or grinning like a madman, probably both, really—"

"_Gaerwen_."

"Zenith…" Now he really wonders if she's skilled in Imperial torture, because he can't handle her melodramatic pause. "Frankly our child is going to be riddled with freckles."

Her face lights up even more as she grins, from her blue eyes to her small dimples, and it's like the wind's been knocked out of him. He isn't sure if he heard her right, but he's too dumbstruck to even splutter out a word.

"I'm pregnant, Zenith." Her smile softens and she blushes. "You're going to be a father."

And just like her, it takes a moment to overcome the stunning realization. When it does, so much boils up to the surface, and he can't do anything more than pull her into his arms, running his hand through her hair, touching her face as he pulls away. He smooths out her ruffled, wind-blown hair, and their expressions mirror one another: overwhelming happiness, apprehension, and astonishment. The Force is so alive and almost tangible, he can feel her through something bigger than all of them, and there's a spec of the future waiting to grow there as well.

It's just the two of them—there's no responsibilities, no fear beyond the understandable nervousness that falls to those who will in under a year become parents, no war, nothing but his wife and the knowledge that in all that's happened to him, from slavery to resistance to vengeance to somehow finding a home, he knows that in spite of it all, there's something new to fight for, with her.


	32. Chapter 32

**Someone To Fight For**

**Chapter Thirty-Two**

"I really think you should read it, it's a rather fascinating dissertation about the relationship between veterans of war and political activism. In fact, the author uses several excerpts from speeches and debates in order to showcase the varying degrees of patriotism…"

Gaerwen sits beside him on their bed, brushing her hair as she cleans up for the day. He turns on her datapad and starts searching for the file she's alluding to, but instead, another document catches his eye entitled _To Whomever Finds This Datapad_ and dated prior to their meeting on Balmorra. He glances up briefly, and then opens the document and starts to read.

_"To whomever finds this:_

_This _isn't_ a suicide note, first off. On the contrary, it's far from it, and I truly I want nothing more than to live another day, to know the bliss of happiness again, to continue helping others, to continue striving to make the galaxy a better place for the future, even if I myself am not physically apart of that future…" _

Beside Zenith, Gaerwen stops brushing her hair abruptly mid-stroke and lowers her brush in order to rest her hands in her lap. She stills, but he sees that she's stiffly gripping her nightgown. He should have known—there's not much he can hide from her through the bond he doesn't entirely understand.

_"…I fear my time to join the Force is coming soon—I suppose that's fine, though rather morbid to say I'll admit, but if it's the will of the Force then it's the will of the Force. There's still a job that needs to be done, and someone needs to bear the weight as long as the Plaguemaster lives. After my mission is complete, and maybe it won't be me, someone else will have to pick up where I've left off. This is a hefty sacrifice, and not everyone can do it. I hope whoever takes the mantle after myself is prepared for that—I pray that they are. _

_At any moment, I worry, I'll simply fall apart. Perhaps my head will pop off, and wouldn't that be a rather amusing sight? Or maybe my heart will fail, or maybe I simply won't wake up after falling asleep one evening—something is bound to happen after bearing the suffering and torment of others for this long. _

_It seemed so simple when it was only Master Yuon who was ill, and I was eager to help others in whatever way possible. But carrying the weight of one soul is easier than carrying the souls of five or six—I can't even remember now, it all seems to blur together. Each one is unique, however. I can feel it in my bones, in my head—I can't think straight in these low moments. But even looking back, I _wouldn't_ have stepped down and said "No, I can't do that, Masters." I would do it again over and over because it was and continues to be the _right_ thing to do. As fate would have it, only I can wield both the sword and shield against the Plaguemaster—at least at this time._

_It's like there's a storm, and I'm lost at sea, only my ship's gone and I'm drowning amongst the waves, swallowing water but still staying afloat as best as I can. I can't describe it well in words, it's more of a feeling. To carry so much darkness—if there ever were a moment for nobility in self-sacrifice, I think I have knowingly found it. _

_As if facing this wasn't enough, I admit I'm…well I guess it doesn't matter, my time's coming soon, I'll be as honest as possible, I'll be simply human…there's no one to discuss this with, no one who can bear the burden with me at least in word and sympathy alone. Qyzen is a good friend, but he's worried enough as it is for Yuon, and telling him that I'm struggling to keep her shielded would worsen the situation and would only make both Qyzen and Yuon feel guilty, and Yuon especially is fragile. Tharan, of course, thinks it's all ridiculous and absurd, but I suppose that's because he doesn't understand the Force well. Tharan needs to push away the fog of his own selfishness and ego. Maybe I wouldn't want his sympathy anyways. _

_I've lost track of my correspondence to both my father and Billie, and even then, I don't think I could properly explain to them what's going on. I imagine Billie would think it wrong of the Jedi Council to place this burden upon me. My father would simply worry, and he has enough to worry about on Corellia. I love them both so much. I miss them._

_Who can then bear the weight of the one who bears the torment of so many others? I don't think anyone else can, perhaps no one should._

_Should I pass, please cremate me and spread my ashes across Tython. I want to be amongst that planet's beauty and tranquility, where the Force is so alive. Hopefully my mother will be waiting for me on the other side. _

_With unconditional love,_

_Gaerwen Aurell"_

"I honestly thought I had deleted that."

Zenith jerks his head up and sees that her position has shifted so that she's facing him but looking away. He places her datapad at his side and sits up. It's as if he's surfaced after dunking his head in cold water—the blood rushes back to his head all at once, and at first he's angry and frustrated, mostly out of his own helplessness. He can't help her past self any more than she can help his own. Nonetheless, he feels shell-shocked.

"There were many Jedi who had fallen ill as a result of a plague the Order hadn't seen in several years. My master fell ill so I searched for a cure; I found it, but the devices in which the cure was kept were destroyed on Coruscant." Her expression is stone, and her voice so uncharacteristically flat and detached. "I traveled across the galaxy in order to find the ill and cure them before greater damage was done to innocent bystanders. Sometimes I made it just in time, other times…I was too late and lives were lost."

Even though Gaerwen's the one who's gone through the trauma, Zenith's the one drawing in deeper breaths as a result of a racing heart and unsettling anxiety.

"When I wrote that letter I was just… _tired_, I suppose. The healing ritual took a lot out of me. The cure required me to sacrifice a little of myself, usually resulting in a tired body, but a _body_ nonetheless—until it all started to add up, and it became more difficult to work through. I knew at some point I would simply just fall apart. I wanted to say goodbye in some small way—I never sent the letter to anyone, I couldn't after all."

Zenith pulls her closer into his lap partially, wrapping his arms tightly around her. Physical contact breaks the barriers holding back her emotion. It rushes out and for several moments she shakes and shudders and holds onto him in a deathgrip, burying her head in the crook of his neck and hyperventilating like she did on Tatooine after nearly falling to her death. She's warm but she's shivering, and he rubs her back, attempting to soothe her.

"I…I was so scared, I was trying so hard to remain composed and have some degree of dignity when I wrote that. I wanted to be the stoic Jedi who accepted sacrifice and death without flinching. I wanted to find peace, I wanted to continue on to the best of my abilities, but sometimes I just felt so… so…"

"Alone."

She sighs and nods against his neck, having lost her voice temporarily.

When it's found again, it's quiet and low but he can hear every quiver of pain and regret. "It was all a waste in the end. I had to choose between letting the Sith Plaguemaster go or killing him and ending that terror once and for all, thus preventing the Sith spirit from returning. In killing the Plaguemaster, I would be killing all of those whom I had shielded as well as those who had been touched by the plague but had not yet experienced symptoms." She hesitates, swallowing hard. "_Twelve_ pages worth of Jedi, countless more in Republic soldiers who had been brainwashed—all in one flash of pain, so many voices silenced, my Master's included."

Zenith's hand slowly slides up her bare arm to her drying cheek, running over each and every one of her freckles.

"It felt like everything I had done didn't matter. No matter how much of myself I had given up, I couldn't save them." His chest tightens—he knows exactly how she feels. "I would have given anything to save them."

"I'm sorry."

Gaerwen looks up, almost as if she's been reminded that she's sitting in his lap, holding onto him tightly, and she recollects herself. "It was a heavy price to pay—I don't know if I would have done it differently."

"You made the right choice. You saved the future rather than simply protected the present. Not many people think about the long-term."

"I'm not the true and pure Jedi the galaxy and you believe me to be."

"No one is true and pure." Zenith frowns and brushes the hair out of her eyes. He chuckles sadly, "Now I understand more of where you were coming from after Balmorra."

"I indirectly killed all of those innocent people… and…and the Council promoted me. _Promoted_ me, Zenith! Placed upon me the title of Barsen'thor, Warden of the Jedi Order. I hadn't even washed the blood off my hands and they were moving on as if nothing had happened. Every time I pass through the Temple, I'm greeted as that, and every time I have to swallow it all down, push it away, and appear as if I'm somehow collected. Sometimes I wished I had passed before having to make that decision…"

"Don't say that," he urges her, "don't you dare say that."

"I suppose in the end, after Balmorra I…I needed you just as much as you needed me, and maybe I wanted to help mitigate your pain because it helped sort through some of my own as well. And every day that I'm alive is one that I cherish."

"I had no idea."

She smiles, if wearily, and sighs. "After Balmorra I started putting the pieces of myself back together, partially because I had to, but also because I wasn't as alone. I started writing to my father and Billie again. I started to take care of myself again, both physically and mentally. Try to believe it, but there was a time where I stopped taking tea after supper, and in fact stopped reading as a whole—I just couldn't do it then, I was so exhausted."

"That's hard to believe. It's hard to imagine seeing you without a cup of tea and your head immersed in a book or essay."

"But saving Nadia and recruiting you were the most important parts of my slow recovery, and you both make me so inexplicably happy. If I could go back and tell my past self something, I would tell her to hold on, help's on the way. I had someone to drink tea with again. I had someone to debate with," her smiles grows, and she leans forward and places a kiss on his cheek. "I had something more personal to live for."


	33. Chapter 33

**Someone To Fight For **

**Chapter 33**

Gaerwen squeezes Zenith's hand and sighs as they step outside the Council chambers. She reaches up and rubs the bridge of her brow. She's visibly shaken with both anger and disgust.

"That went horribly wrong, didn't it? Maybe we shouldn't have told anyone, I knew this would happen—"

"You needed to tell them." Zenith shrugs. "They're the hypocrites."

Her eyes fall down to her feet, and her entire body trembles as the Council's words echo in her head: _You can stay in the Order if you let us study you and your child, as we had requested of your mother. You know how critical it would be in gathering information about the possibility of a link between the Emperor, his Children, and the descendents of Children. If your child is or becomes a threat—_

"I don't know what I'm supposed to do, my entire life I've always been a Jedi…I'm not saying I regret any of it, because believe me Zenith I don't not one minute of it, I just—"

"You continue doing what you do best."

Her grip tightens and she shrugs. "There are still possibly agents to be found and dealt with."

"They made their choice knowing that."

They walk down the ramp, heading toward the main lower sanctum. Unlike times before, Gaerwen does not receive many acknowledged smiles, waves, or gestures by colleagues. News spreads quickly, especially as gossip as hot as this—the heralded Barsen'thor, sixteen weeks _pregnant?_ But the gossip isn't far from the truth, and it's clear that there's no attempt at denying it. Gaerwen boldly holds onto her husband's hand and while her robes are loose and flowing, at certain angles it becomes clear that there's a small bump.

"We could keep going after them, I could find a way to contact Syo—"

"Even if you weren't as far along, I wouldn't let you."

"Something has to be done. Someone has to stop the remaining few. I won't let people die because someone, _myself_, didn't—"

"Whatever happens, it's on the Council now."

She sighs. "I can't live with that."

"Neither can I. But there's no point throwing yourself into that. The next one could reveal itself tomorrow or in the following weeks or months."

"I suppose if I do set up something that will allow me to keep in contact with Syo, I could organize for you, Felix, Nadia, and Qyzen to eliminate the Child. You're all more than capable. Regardless, I just—"

"You're worried that it would be different without you."

The sun's brightness upon exiting the Temple blinds her temporarily, and once her eyes adjust, she looks out from the top of the steps leading down into the training grounds. There are classes of padawans training in combat technique—training future soldiers, _not_ future scholars—by sparring with vibroswords.

"Every encounter is unique, these Children are unpredictable, and there is little understanding in what drives their actions or why they are activated when they are. There is no research on the why these individuals are chosen, excluding the testimony of my mother and what little can be ascertained from Syo… And because research can't be performed, it's not ethical, and if I won't let them do it to our child, then I won't let it happen to anyone else…each case is unique and essentially involves winging it." She frowns and shrugs. "So of course I'm worried. Anyways, there's no point talking about it any further, we'll worry about it later."

* * *

Tython is like a physical archive of memories, of moments she cherishes in spite of the present predicament. Memories of training amongst peers, learning meditation techniques, the mystery of Rajivari and the First Blade, reciting tomes of history and analyzing their purpose, helping the pilgrims in whatever way possible, and taking her first step truly into adulthood as no longer a student, but as a Jedi in her own right and as an independent woman seeking answers for a loved one.

Even if she is no longer welcome with the Jedi in name, there is one place on Tython that has unconditionally accepted her—Kalikori Village, the place where her journey began.

"I'd like to say goodbye to some of the villagers I helped when I was a padawan—I imagine I won't ever see them again in person."

Zenith nods and she smiles. They take a short speeder ride, and Gaerwen drives it with Zenith holding onto her. The gesture of affection—one that always could have the semblance of innocence—has always been their way of being close in the public's eyes. Now, while there's no need for discreteness, he still holds her steady as they zoom through the light forests.

When they arrive at Kalikori Village, it's immersed in festivities that Gaerwen hasn't seen since her first time venturing here.

"What's going on?"

"It's an annual festival celebrating settlement."

As they slide off the speeder, with Zenith helping her, she smiles broadly. Immediately she feels better—the air is lighter given the higher elevation but her spirits pick up as a result of the festivities. It's a good distraction, and she wants to share stories with the Twi'lek she befriended more than three years ago.

They walk into the village, hands intertwined, and she begins to explain her involvement with the pilgrims, now citizens of Tython. The settlement has expanded, in both physical size and in population. There are many more children now, and she knows it's a result of the decline in the mortality rate, which had been inflated because of flesh raider attacks. The Jedi followed through with her efforts and continued to support the Twi'lek, as she requested, until they were able to fully take care of themselves.

Some Twi'lek take notice amidst the festival's commotion, appear to remember her, and smile and wave. It warms her incredibly, and she takes the initiative to stop and introduce Zenith as her husband. Some are surprised that she, a Jedi, would have married and become pregnant. As Gaerwen's and Zenith's presence becomes known given word of mouth, a crowd forms around the two, mostly comprised of eager women wanting to know how far along she is and how she's handling it all. The multiple, all at once conversations climax when the crowd parts and Nalen Raloch and the Matriarch, Ranna Tao'ven, arrive to join in.

Gaerwen turns her attention and catches Nalen's eye, bows her head, and offers a small smile.

"It's a pleasure to see you both."

"Master Aurell, it's an honor," the Matriarch says, taking the Jedi's hand and shaking it, "but what brings you here? The festival?"

"Unfortunately this is… Well, it's sort of a goodbye, I'm afraid."

The crowd gasps, and the barrage of questions return.

"Please, please, I'm leaving Tython indefinitely—I may someday return."

Wendy frowns. "I've stepped down from the Jedi Council as well as left the Order. For personal and ethical reasons."

"A terrible loss on behalf of the Order. It's because you're with child?"

Gaerwen blinks, hesitates, and imagines there's no point in denying the obvious now. She touches her abdomen and nods.

"New life in exchange for the formal sacrifice of another."

"In word alone. I will never stop being a Jedi

"Of course," the Matriarch extends her hand, which Wendy takes, "will you stay with us for the festival, at the very least? You deserve a proper farewell and our elders can bless you and your family, as my mother blessed your father."

Gaerwen looks to Zenith, shrugs, and her smile grows when he nods.

"Come, there's many stories to share over tea and dinner." The Matriarch turns to Nalen and adds,"Perhaps you can arrange for her companion to partake in our trials?"

"My _husband_," Gaerwen smirks and nudges Zenith. "I think you're more than capable, if you're up for the challenge. I completed the trials when I was here last. When I was a _padawan_."

"Is that a challenge?"

"Yes, it is."

Nalen remains stoic and gestures for Zenith to follow.

"Fine, but it's as I always say—"

"'You look tough, but I'm better', yes, yes, go prove it by beating my record."  
Gaerwen and Zenith part, with the Jedi following Matriarch Tao'ven and Zenith with Raloch.

"The main ceremonies begin at nightfall. If you succeed, we'll honor your victory; if you fail, we will honor your life."

Gaerwen waves goodbye and laughs. Once out of earshot of Zenith and Nalen, she says, "He'll be back _early_, trust me."


End file.
